


penelope did this, too

by cherryfeather



Series: scribere iussit amor [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Domestic, Double Penetration, F/M, Fingerfucking, Fisting, Fivesome - F/M/M/M/M, Kink Negotiation, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Multi, Nightmares, OT5, Pegging, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-27
Updated: 2017-07-03
Packaged: 2018-02-10 15:15:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 65,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2029893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherryfeather/pseuds/cherryfeather
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aramis hides it well, but not being able to return to duty bothers him. He hates that Athos, Porthos, and d'Artagnan are out risking their lives and he can't be there to back them up. </p><p>Constance knows the feeling. She's intimately acquainted with it, in fact.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A sequel to [every time I see your face,](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1378876)or, as I call it, the monster fivesome fic.
> 
> Some may recall the "someday" Athos promised in the first story. This, in a very roundabout way, is that someday.
> 
> The series title comes from Ovid, and was initially used in a letter written in a later chapter. The Ovid got cut, but it still felt appropriate for the clandestine nature of the relationship-- _Dicere quae puduit, scribere iussit amor:_ "Love commands me to write what I was ashamed to speak." The title of this story is from Edna St. Vincent Millay's ["An Ancient Gesture."](http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/an-ancient-gesture/)

Constance loves days when not _all_ of her boys are sent to war. Admittedly, she usually only gets them because someone's been badly injured, but, still. Today, Aramis stays at home with her when the others leave for the garrison, confined to bed after being thrown from his horse in a skirmish. The mottled bruising down his side is absolutely ghastly to look at, but he hadn't cracked any ribs, thank God. He sprained his wrist, and probably cracked a bone in his arm, badly enough that they need to keep it wrapped (and he won't stop moaning about how he can't hold a sword or shoot until it heals, which is adorable and annoying in equal measure), but Constance is grateful that's the worst of it. 

When the other three left that morning, Porthos was very explicit that Aramis not be allowed to leave the bed. That didn't really limit them, since the massive four-poster bed they'd acquired was practically an island--but then he'd caught Constance's wicked expression not half a second later and added, "And he can't put any weight or strain on that arm." Which really only cut the things they could do in half.

Still, Constance thinks a bit guiltily as she kneels naked between Aramis' legs and slides two slick fingers into his body, this is probably slightly more strenuous than Porthos would approve of.

"I'm not hurting you, am I?" she asks solicitously, when he stops moaning long enough to draw breath.

"No," he gasps, clearly fighting himself not to bend up backward off the bed. He looks almost ready to come again--she's been teasing him for quite a long time--and she's wondering if he'll do it from just her fingers this time. "No, you're--you're fine, keep going, please."

She scissors her fingers inside of him and Aramis chokes on his breath, his eyes fluttering shut. "Good," Constance says, drawing out the word with a smile. "I'd hate to make it worse. Then you'd have to spend even longer home with me." There are worse things, after all. They've both already come once, forced to be a little inventive because of his injuries. And she _likes_ what they came up with, something they'd never tried before and will have to show the others: Aramis on his back, mindful of his side and arm, and Constance holding herself over him so they could use their mouths on each other, her knees on either side of his head so he could lick her while she sucked him. It was really one of the best ideas she's had in weeks.

Aramis makes a high, breathless sound of want, and it's one of Constance's very favorite sounds. She loves coaxing it out of him however she can. She pulls her hand out, adds a little more of the slippery salve they'd started buying in embarrassingly large quantities once everyone moved in, and dives back in, adding another finger just to hear him make that sound again. 

He _shakes,_ keening out her name in a low cry, and she takes pity on him. She wraps her other hand around his cock (untouched since they started this, oh, about half an hour ago) and Aramis' hips jerk, the motion of which startles another sound from him when it drives her fingers against that sweet spot Porthos taught her to hit. 

"Go ahead," she says, keeping her grip light around his cock. She's learning not to be ashamed of the way she sometimes wants to order them around, and she's stopped blushing at the words she uses. "Fuck yourself on my fingers, Aramis. I know you want to."

He squeezes his eyes shut, head thrashing back and forth on the pillow, and moves, helpless to her commands. He pushes himself down onto her fingers, hips rolling shamelessly against her hand, and she loves seeing him brought to this point, where all he does is feel. It's gorgeous. She can feel her own arousal slick between her legs--she might make him use his mouth on her again after this, maybe straddling his shoulders so he can stay on his back (she _is_ worried about his side, after all).

"More," Aramis gasps, and Constance bends to press a kiss to the dripping head of his cock. He _whines,_ his hips shuddering up to her, then--amazingly--shakes his head and changes his motion, rocking back _down_ onto her hand. "No--no, more of your hand, please, _please,_ it's not enough--"

"It never is," she laughs, even as a rush of hot desire floods her from cheeks to cunt. She loves it when he begs for more--but he hasn't asked for four fingers ever, not from her, even if her hands are smaller than Porthos'. He feels relaxed enough, though, that she's willing to consider it. And she can't deny that she really, _really_ wants to see him take that much of her.

She keeps a careful eye on his motion as she adds more salve and pushes her fingers back in, because if he twists that bruised side too much or gives even a hint of pain, she's ending this right here. He lets out another high, needy sound as she moves slowly back into him, and Constance smiles. "Talk to me, Aramis," she says, watching his expression shift as she stretches him. "Tell me how you feel."

His face is slack with desire and pleasure, eyes squeezed shut and lips parted, and she feels the shudders racing through his body from the inside out. "Good," he manages to say. "Good, it's good."

"It doesn't hurt?" He shakes his head, but he's glossed over pain before and Constance presses him. "Anywhere? Your side, your arm?"

"My side is fine, I can't even _feel_ it, Constance, I _swear,_ please--"

"All right," she whispers, kissing his chest. "All right, I've got you." She starts to move her hand in earnest, spreading her fingers and twisting them in him, and Aramis lets out a strangled cry, gasping for air as he moves with her, seeking more. Always wanting more, their Aramis.

He comes barely a minute later, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes as he shakes, and Constance eases him through it, her chest warm with how much she feels for him just then. Aramis hides it well, but not being able to return to duty bothers him. He hates that Athos, Porthos, and d'Artagnan are out risking their lives and he can't be there to back them up. 

She knows the feeling. She's intimately acquainted with it, in fact. So she's glad she can distract him, help some of his nerves and tension. 

He whines as she slowly pulls her hand out of his body, his hips rocking down as if to keep her in him. Constance murmurs soothing nonsense, keeping her free hand on him to smoothe gently over his uninjured side. He always does that after they fuck him--like he can't bear to have them leave.

"I'm still here," she whispers, stretching up and laying herself along his good side so she can kiss him. "Still here, love."

He half-laughs, but it's a despairing little sound, and Constance's heart twists as she sees the shine in his eyes. He reaches for her, something pleading in his face, and she holds him close, trying to breathe around a sudden surge of guilt. Had she said something wrong? Had it been too intense, had she hurt him?

"Aramis?" she asks gently, when she can't stand it anymore. "Sweetheart, are you all right?"

He nods, but his whole body's tense, and he presses his face to the side of her neck. "Just stay for a moment," he whispers against her skin.

"Always," she says, and she strokes his back, pressing idle kisses to his hair for something to do.

Finally, he relaxes somewhat, and Constance is so, so relieved when he lifts his head to kiss her. There's still something fragile in his eyes, even if he's smiling some version of his usual cocky grin, and Constance holds him in the kiss a little longer than she would usually. 

"I'm all right," he assures her when they part at last. One corner of his mouth tugs up slightly, ruefully. "But you probably refuse to believe that right now, don't you?"

"If you say so, I'll believe you," she says, and kisses his forehead. "You don't normally look like you're about to cry after we have sex, though, so if you feel up to explaining, I'd appreciate it." She doesn't want to pressure him, but--clearly, he's bottled up whatever it is for too long, if it leaks out like that.

Aramis sighs, and he curls into her, resting his head on her breast as they arrange themselves a little more comfortably, his bandaged arm across her chest and her arms around him. "I know it's ridiculous." He swallows, and his voice sounds so small. It hurts. Aramis is usually so confident. 

"But?" she asks gently, when he's silent for a long moment.

He sighs, and she feels his eyes close, feels his long eyelashes brush her chest. "I'm always scared you're going to disappear," he whispers. "When you pull away. All of you." 

She kisses his hair. "That's not ridiculous." Aramis has lost so many people he's loved--seen so many of them die, literally slip away, right before his eyes. Who wouldn't be afraid, after all that?

One corner of his mouth pulls up slightly, a faint approximation of his usual smile. "It is, a little. Totally irrational."

"No one says we need to be rational about what we feel in bed," she points out, and Aramis laughs softly, ducking his head against her chest. She smiles and strokes his shoulders, happy that she made him laugh. "Does explain a few things, though."

"Oh?" He looks up, his smile wider, more like him. "Which ones?"

"The way you're always asking us for more, for one." She kisses him once, just barely brushing her lips over his. "And here we thought you were just desperate for it. Turns out you miss us when we're gone."

He flushes, but it's a familiar, pleased flush, one that she's seen on him before and absolutely loves. "That's a good way to put it." He looks more relaxed, now that he's said it and she hasn't laughed at it. 

"Is there anything we can do?" she asks then, stroking one hand across his brow, and she cups his jaw in one hand to tilt his face up to hers. "Anything to make you _know_ we've got you, we're not going anywhere?"

Aramis smiles up at her, his dark eyes impossibly grateful. "I do love you, Constance," he murmurs, and stretches up to kiss her. 

She holds the kiss for a long moment, and she loves that they can kiss like this now, slow and easy. He was always trying to impress her at the beginning. Now, they're comfortable with each other, and she can coax a lazy, messy kiss from Aramis the perfect lover. "You didn't answer my question," she says when they break apart. "Can we do anything for you, Aramis?"

He laughs, reaching up with his bandaged arm to run his fingers through the tangled mass of her curls. She tuts at him, taking his hand and gently lowering it back to his side, and Aramis chuckles. "Like you said," he says, tracing his nose along hers instead, "I always want more. So more is always better."

She considers it. Then, like a lightning strike, she remembers their first night together, toward the end, when Porthos was in Aramis and d'Artagnan was in her. And she remembers the way Athos had slid his hand down Aramis' back, pushed his fingers in beside Porthos' cock, the way Aramis shook in his arms and clung to him.

 _Someday,_ Athos had said, and Aramis and Porthos had both gasped in utter, blind need.

"Whatever you're thinking, I like the way it's making you blush," Aramis says, grinning at her. 

She smiles at him, tracing a finger along the elegant swoop of his collarbone. "I was just remembering our first night."

His smile is slow and warm, and he kisses her. "Oh?"

"Do you really think you could take Athos _and_ Porthos at once?"

She asks it without any buildup, no preamble, no easing into it--she wants to know what his first, unguarded reaction is to the idea.

And she gets her answer when the dark centers of his eyes blow wide, and his cock jerks against her leg. He looks like he's stunned speechless.

Well. That's one way of knowing. 

"I don't know," he says, his voice rough. "But I want to try."

Constance nods solemnly. She leans in and kisses him, and Aramis clutches at her face, his lips moving with aching, worshipful tenderness. She takes everything he gives her and gives it back tenfold.

They lie in bed, talking quietly, sharing kisses and gentle touches, until it starts to grow dark outside and their boys return.

Constance lifts her head as she hears the door unlock downstairs and low voices fill the quiet space. There's the rustle of cloaks, the rattle and clunk of weapons, and she can distinguish the individual voices now. Constance drops her head back down with a smile, running her fingers through Aramis' hair. He dozes against her chest--she soothed him to sleep a while ago, steadily petting his hair, and he looks peaceful for the first time in days.

The door opens carefully, quietly, with a single candle casting light in the darkening room, and she knows it's Porthos before he pokes his head through the door. She lifts a finger to her lips, smiling, and he grins at her. He must have taken his boots off downstairs, because he moves across the floor to her on surprisingly noiseless feet. He blows her a kiss as he lays carefully down on Aramis' other side, checking the state of what bruises he can see above the edge of the blanket. 

Aramis lifts his head slightly at the shift in the bed, but as Porthos' body presses against him, he sinks back down, smiling. Aramis would know Porthos blindfolded in a dark room (and frequently has). "Porthos," he sighs, settling between them. "You're back early."

"It's been dark for two hours," Porthos chuckles quietly, pressing a kiss to the back of his neck.

Constance feels Aramis frown against her chest, and she laughs, stroking his hair again. "You fell asleep, sweetheart."

"Oh." Aramis' brow smoothes out, and he twists his head to press a sleepy kiss to Porthos' lips. "Then you're right on time."

"How do you feel?" Porthos asks, refusing to get caught up in flirtation until he's assured himself of Aramis' well-being. He pulls the blanket down so he can see the rest of his side. 

Aramis glances down at it, then shrugs, sinking back into Constance's softness and warmth. "Fine. A little sore." He grins against her breast. "Not in my side, though."

Porthos purses his lips and arches an eyebrow at Constance. "I _said_ \--"

"He was on his back the whole time," she says, holding up a hand to forestall his objections. "Absolutely nothing strenuous."

"She was the perfect nurse," Aramis assures him. "Extremely solicitous to my care and well-being. I came twice, and all I had to do was lie here."

Porthos rolls his eyes, but the corners of his eyes crinkle with warm affection. "I see." He's been stroking Aramis' back since he lay down, but this time his fingers move slowly and deliberately down Aramis' spine. Aramis sighs happily, arching his back into Porthos' touch. "Oh," Porthos says then, sounding interested, and Aramis' breath gives a tell-tale hitch. Constance can't see more than the flex of muscles in Porthos' forearm, but she's sure Porthos is fingering him. From the look on Porthos' face, Aramis still has to be loose. "Was this recently?"

"Few hours ago," Constance says, grinning at him. 

Porthos' eyebrows climb up a little higher. "Oh." The single syllable is heavy with heat and promise, and they share a look over Aramis' head.

Aramis whines slightly, pushing back into Porthos' hand. Constance can feel his cock starting to swell against her thigh. "Porthos..." he murmurs, his bandaged fingers flexing against Constance's stomach.

"Didn't you say you'd already come twice today?" Porthos reminds him with a teasing smile, but the motion of his arm doesn't stop. "Greedy, I always say."

"And you're driving me mad," Aramis sighs, still not lifting his head from Constance's chest. His hips rock back and forth between her leg and Porthos' touch, his now-hard cock sliding against her with every motion. She reaches down and wraps a hand loosely around him, giving him something to thrust into, and when Aramis lets out a soft moan, Porthos leans over Aramis to give her a proper kiss.

She smiles against Porthos' lips as Aramis starts to pant between them. They work so well together, her and Porthos. He returns her smile when they break apart, flashing her a wink, and he speeds up the motion of his hand. She tightens her grip, and Aramis groans quietly, letting Porthos' motions push him into the circle of her fingers.

"I don't think I've ever felt you like this," Porthos says, his low voice amazed. "So loose--so relaxed. Just taking it."

And Porthos is right, Constance realizes. For once, Aramis isn't tense all over and straining for his orgasm. He's totally pliant between them, just letting them bring him closer and closer to release. Porthos and Constance watch him intently, cataloguing every motion, making sure he's not in pain. He's so relaxed, though, Constance is sure he's not. His eyes are closed, long lashes dark against his flushed cheeks, and his mouth curves into a gentle smile as Porthos bends to kiss his neck again. 

"You close?" Porthos murmurs in his ear. Aramis nods, his body still calm between them. The ragged way he draws breath is the only way they can tell he's getting there. 

"Going to let us make you come?" Constance asks softly, and Aramis sighs out another contented sound and nods. He looks like he's floating.

"Please," he whispers against her skin, his breath hot, and Constance moans softly. She tightens her hand, looking quickly at Porthos, and he nods, speeding up the drag and slide of his fingers.

Aramis exhales a shuddering breath and comes a moment later, spilling hot against the inside of her thighs. He's beautiful in the candlelight, his face smooth and untroubled by pain or worry, a soft, happy smile playing across his lips.

"Beautiful," Porthos says, then, a mirror of her thoughts, and Constance flashes him a smile. 

"Sweet of you to say," Aramis murmurs, shifting so he can nuzzle at Porthos and Constance both. "Thank you." He kisses Porthos, then Constance, and he just looks so _happy_ that Constance's heart sings. 

"When you're all quite finished?" a low, amused voice says from the doorway. Constance looks up and sees Athos leaning against the frame, an unmistakably warm smile on his face. "D'Artagnan's nearly done with supper." 

Aramis sighs happily. "Athos." He holds out his bandaged arm, curling his fingers to beckon as well as he can, and Athos pushes off from the doorway, crossing the room to them in three strides. He never, ever hesitates when any one of them calls him. 

Athos sits on the edge of the bed and very gently takes Aramis' hand in his own, holding his broken arm like it's made of spun glass. Almost tenderly, Athos brushes a kiss across his knuckles. It's so sweet it makes Constance ache--Athos is always so careful with them. "Feeling well?" he asks, his blue eyes nearly glowing in the half-light.

Aramis smiles a sleepy, heavy-lidded smile, and traces the tips of his fingers across Athos' lips and cheeks. "Better now. Arm's fine."

"Your side?" 

Aramis rolls his eyes, shaking off his sex haze in the face of his second-favorite pastime: bickering with Athos. "For God's sake, I've barely felt it all day. See?" He braces himself on his other arm and starts to sit up. 

"No," Porthos says in exasperation, but he's too late. Aramis lets out a half-vocalized yelp of pain as the motion jars muscles he hasn't tried to use all day, blood flooding into stiff tissue and reawakening bruises. "Oh, and I was doing so well," he groans as Constance and Porthos have to physically help him lie back down, startling another loud, pained noise from him in the process. 

"Do I need to come up there?" d'Artagnan yells up the stairs, and Constance stifles a giggle in the face of Aramis' disappointment.

"In a moment," Athos calls back, then looks at Aramis with a half-fond, half-annoyed expression on his face. "You are the worst patient, do you know that?"

Aramis looks up at Athos through his dark eyelashes, his face artlessly arranging itself into the most appealing of expressions. "Lie down and make me feel better?" he says, just a hint of pleading in his voice, and Athos' expression softens just a touch before he hitches his scowl back into place.

"We need to bring dinner up," he says, shifting his position on the bed so Constance can move. "And _then,_ I shall be at your disposal. Within reason," he adds, catching the look on Aramis' face. "You're still injured."

"You're still a tease," Aramis says, wrinkling his nose at Athos, but there's no real irritation in his voice or his eyes. Then he makes a discontented noise as Constance starts to slide out of bed. "No," he pouts, reaching for her. 

"Do you want me to leave d'Artagnan alone with all the food?" she asks, leaning over him to kiss his forehead. "Or do you want there to be something left for the rest of us?"

Aramis sighs. "Fair point. Go, be quick, come back to me."

"You are so spoiled," Porthos says, dropping a kiss to his shoulder before climbing off the bed as well.

 _"No,"_ Aramis groans, reaching out with his uninjured arm for Porthos. "This isn't fair, I don't get to leave this bed and you do, don't leave me alone--"

"We will be _right_ back," Constance sighs, pulling on the chemise she'd discarded earlier in the day. She doesn't bother with her corset--one of d'Artagnan's vests hangs on the back of the chair in the corner, and she shrugs it on and flips her hair out of the collar. It's clothing enough just to go downstairs.

"Athos," Aramis whines, putting a hand on Athos' knee to stop him getting up too. "Stay?"

Athos sighs in exasperation, but he's already shifting to where Porthos just was as the other two head to the door. "I'll be down soon," Athos says to them, then leans down to capture Aramis' lips in a kiss. 

Constance stays long enough to watch Aramis' whole body go loose and easy again, splayed out under Athos' lean form. Then she and Porthos head downstairs to the kitchen, leaving the door open behind them (it's such a little change, but a marvelous one, from when her husband was still alive and she and d'Artagnan had to sneak everywhere). One of Aramis' soft moans echoes down the stairs after them, and Constance turns and starts to head back up the steps without even thinking. Porthos has to take her arm and physically _tug_ her back downstairs.

"You two, I swear," Porthos laughs, draping his arm around her shoulders. "You're both insatiable. Haven't you have had each other all day?"

"I _know,"_ Constance groans, half-covering her face with one hand as they walk down the hall. "You know, when I married, I thought lying together once a _week_ was too much? Now, if I can't have one or more of you before we get out of _bed,_ I feel like I've wasted the day."

Porthos bursts out laughing, filling the hall and kitchen with the sound of it, and d'Artagnan looks up with a smile as they come in. He's a mess, his hair all over the place and flour dusting one cheek from the loaf of bread he's slicing, but he's still the most handsome thing she's ever seen. 

"Oh, that's a nice look on you," he says with a grin, eyeing her only-barely-dressed-and-really-not-even-decent state, and Constance rolls her eyes even as she steps into his arms for a kiss. He slants his mouth across hers, kissing her deep and slow, but she can feel him smiling even then. "This is mine, isn't it?" he asks when they break apart, tugging on the edges of the vest.

"'Course it is, none of the rest of us would wear something so hideous," Porthos says, ruffling d'Artagnan's hair as he passes behind him. D'Artagnan aims a kick at him, but Porthos sidesteps it easily. 

"Have a good day with Aramis?" d'Artagnan asks then, pressing another kiss to her forehead as he pulls away to finish slicing their bread and cheese. Dinner looks to be a simple affair--bits of ham scrambled into eggs, bread and cheese, and apples--but they brought it home to her and made it themselves, and she knows it'll taste better than anything she's ever eaten. "By which I mean," d'Artagnan continues, "please tell me you didn't break Aramis any more than he already is."

"He did nothing but lie on his back all day," Constance says, grinning wickedly as she begins to divide up the eggs into bowls. 

D'Artagnan considers it. "No. No, that doesn't mean anything; you definitely still could have broken him." She whaps him on the shoulder with her spoon handle, and he laughs, ducking away.

"He's still in one piece," Porthos chuckles. "In a few different shapes, but one piece." They move around each other easily in the kitchen, the three of them well-practiced by now (Aramis and Athos are generally useless in the kitchen, and thus, generally banished). 

"Ooh, now that sounds interesting, details, please." 

"We've corrupted you," Porthos laughs. "You never used to want all the sordid details."

D'Artagnan very purposefully presses up against Porthos' side as he reaches for the salt, glancing up with his bottom lip caught between his teeth and one of his eyebrows arched. "You've never seemed to mind my being corrupted before."

Constance giggles, leaning against the counter to watch. Porthos' eyes narrow, and he drops the bowl of apples he's holding to drag d'Artagnan against his front, his hands low on d'Artagnan's slender hips. "You," Porthos says, his fingers leaving creases in d'Artagnan's shirt, "are a menace."

D'Artagnan hums softly. "I learned from the best." He tilts his head back as he rolls his hips forward, grinning hotly, and that's a move he _has_ to have learned from Aramis, but it looks _so_ much filthier when he does it. Maybe it's because he's so very innocent and earnest everywhere _but_ the bedroom. 

Even Constance can still be a little shocked by how utterly shameless he is about wanting them--and he can talk the others into things even Aramis can't. Porthos and Aramis spent a very entertaining evening once relating to her how d'Artagnan managed to get Athos so wound up that he shoved d'Artagnan to his knees and fucked his mouth in the garrison armory. Athos has never even done that to Aramis, apparently.

But she's getting distracted. Right now, Porthos is looking like he's seriously considering fucking d'Artagnan on the kitchen table, and d'Artagnan's giving Porthos his best impression of Aramis' _I'm all yours_ stare. Constance has completely forgotten about dinner.

Athos' boots on the stairs jar them all out of it, and d'Artagnan drops his head against Porthos' collarbone with a chuckle. Porthos sighs, running an affectionate hand through d'Artagnan's hair, then grins as Athos walks in. "Kiss Aramis into submission, then?" he asks.

Athos' own hair is a mess and there's a flush high on his cheeks. He flashes them a quick smile, heading to the sideboard for the wine, then reaches up to wipe a drop of something white from the corner of his mouth. "Something like that," he says, and not one of them misses how slightly hoarse he is. 

"And we missed it?" d'Artagnan says, outraged.

"I assumed you would all be in any second," Athos says with immense dignity, turning to them. "Had I known you were down here making eyes at each other instead of bringing dinner up, I would have--" 

Constance kisses him to shut him up. Athos makes a noise low in his throat as she licks along his tongue, tasting Aramis, and his hand comes to rest gently on the small of her back. He's smiling when she breaks away. "I don't believe I said good evening to you, Constance," he says, brushing his nose against hers.

"You did not," she says, affecting a haughty tone. "But I've forgiven you now." She winks and tweaks his beard before stepping back to the table. "And there's something I need to talk to you about. Something Aramis asked me for this afternoon."

"Oh?" Athos says, taking a sip of wine as he watches them fill bowls to bring upstairs. "Does it have anything to do with the way he was begging me to fuck him before I'd barely said hello?"

"Remind me how that's different from any other day?" d'Artagnan asks, grinning at him. 

Athos flashes d'Artagnan a smile over the rim of his glass. Athos has a very particular smile for d'Artagnan--small and warm, with a hint of heat. "He was more than usually vehement about it today. I gather you've been teasing, Constance," he says to her then, including her in his smile. 

"Not teasing," she says with a laugh. "He kept asking for more, and I gave it to him." She wants to add the thing they'd talked about then, but she doesn't know quite how to. She's still trying to figure out the vocabulary of these things they're doing together; it's all so new. 

They all can tell, she thinks, that there's more she wants to say, and they wait patiently for her to find the words. "At first I was afraid it was too much," she says finally, deciding to just have out with it. "He seemed a little--well, shaky, when we were finished. But we talked about it, and--" She bites her lip, chewing on it thoughtfully, and chooses her words carefully. "He's always scared we're going to vanish into thin air. I wanted to give him a little more."

Porthos and Athos glance at each other, and she knows they're thinking the same thing she is. "He always wants more," Porthos says, his voice heavy, and there's a worried tension in the look he and Athos share. She wonders, then, if they know he wants it and they both want it, why they haven't ever done it before?

D'Artagnan's looking between them all, and she sees the moment when he realizes. A little blush streaks along his cheekbones, but when he glances at her, there's the same worry and doubt there that the other two have.

"He can take it," she assures them all. "I know he can take it."

"We couldn't," Athos says shortly, staring down into his wine glass. "Not if we hurt him."

And it's all very clear, then. To her, it's only ever been about what Aramis can take--if it'd be too much for _him._ She hadn't really thought about it being too much for _them._

"Can't you trust him to know what he wants?" d'Artagnan asks quietly.

"We trust him," Porthos says. He's braced himself on the table, hands on the wood and his shoulders tight. "Not ourselves."

D'Artagnan takes a half-step closer to Porthos, looking at Athos, too. "But... _we're_ here now," he says, and looks back at Constance for confirmation. She nods, and he smiles at her. "We'll help," he tells them, offering it up like it's the most natural thing in the world.

It's _so_ like d'Artagnan, offering himself as the means to make everyone happy. He'll gladly put himself in the middle to ease the way, to give everyone what they want. He's never had to hide the way the rest of them have, to keep a part of himself secret and safe, so his first impulse is to reach out. 

Constance has no idea what they'd do without him.

Athos and Porthos share an almost startled look. Athos' eyes are unguarded for once, just for a moment, in that second when he's looking to Porthos as if to say, _could we?_ And Porthos' face is wide open, because Porthos never believes it can be that easy until it's right there in front of him.

"Once he's well again," Athos says, his voice very different than it was a moment ago. He seems steady, but Constance can see the wine in his glass rocking back and forth ever so slightly. 

"Right," Porthos says. He's clearly smiling and just as clearly trying not to, smiling down at the table at something only he can see. He straightens, gives Athos his version of a serious face, and nods. "We'll talk about it when he's better."

Athos nods, a very small and controlled motion, and he sets his wine glass down. "D'Artagnan, come here."

D'Artagnan walks around the table, looking a little apprehensive, and in one smooth motion Athos grabs him around the waist, pins him to the wall, and kisses him to within an inch of his life. Constance can see just enough of d'Artagnan's face to see his look of surprise turn to delight, as his eyes fall shut and his flailing hands settle on the lapels of Athos' jacket.

Porthos laughs, long and loud, happier than Constance has heard him sound in weeks, and she ducks into the circle of his arm, wrapping an arm around his waist. She feels easy, settled again--they're going to do this for Aramis, they're going to figure it out together. Porthos holds her tightly and presses a kiss to her hair, the both of them smiling at Athos and d'Artagnan, who don't look like they're coming up for air any time soon. Of everyone, she thinks the change in Athos has been the most pronounced--once they'd managed to convince him that he was allowed to feel some small amount of happiness, he started chasing it down with his own particular brand of single-minded determination.

There's a very loud _thud_ from upstairs, the exact sound that the chair next to the bed would make if someone in the bed had purposefully knocked it over. "In your own time," Aramis yells peevishly, and Porthos swears and scrambles for the stairs.

The rest of them bring the food up and soothe Aramis' ruffled feathers with supper and their presence. They all sit on the bed, Constance half in Athos' lap and d'Artagnan propping Aramis up as Porthos helps him eat with his left hand, and it's happy, it's safe, it's home.

It's the last time they're all together for two and a half weeks.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a cushion built up on this one, unlike all my other stories (sorryyy), so here's a shorter chapter to tide y'all over while I'm gone for the weekend. Thank you so much for being so excited about this OT5 with me! I have read all of your comments and they make my heart go all warm.

"I'm coming with you," Aramis says for the fourth time, rising from the bed, and for the fourth time Athos gives him a quelling stare and points him back _down_ like an errant hound.

"You're doing no such thing," Athos says, throwing a shirt haphazardly into his rucksack. Constance takes it back out and actually folds it, glaring at him, and Athos looks briefly chastised. 

"Remind me why not?" Aramis snarls from where he sits on the bed.

"Because if you try to lift a sword with that arm, you'll break it properly," Athos says. "And then you won't be able to shoot or fight for even longer--not to mention the fact that you can barely walk without pain right now. Have I left anything out?"

Athos, Porthos, and d'Artagnan had come racing home just past midday to gather their things. A rider from the border brought news of an attack on the holdings of a lord loyal to the king--rebellion or the Spanish, no one was quite sure, but it was serious, it was _bad_ , and all the Musketeers were riding out in force. All the Musketeers, that was, except the injured one currently sitting in Constance's bed. 

"Porthos," Aramis says in appeal, but Porthos gives him a _be serious_ look. This is Athos' domain, and Porthos would never contradict him. Aramis looks to d'Artagnan next, but asking d'Artagnan to countermand any order from Athos is like asking the moon to rise in the morning instead of the sun. Constance has nothing to say when he looks to her; Athos is right to keep him home. 

Aramis' mouth falls open slightly, and he looks around at the four of them, incredulous. "You can't seriously expect me to stay behind."

"That's exactly what I expect," Athos says, not looking up as he takes his spare powder horn and shoving it into his rucksack with his other clothes. "You're not in fighting shape, Aramis."

Aramis scoffs and starts to get up, but the motion jars his ribs. He winces and freezes in the motion, and Athos gives him a pained look even as Porthos moves worriedly to the bedside. Aramis looks up at them from under the fall of his dark hair, his eyes full of hurt and badly-hid pain. "That's never stopped any of us before."

"I don't want you there," Athos says bluntly, turning to him at last. "You're no use in a fight right now. You'll get hurt even worse, and we can't spare the attention to keep you out of trouble."

Aramis blinks. A flush rises slowly in his cheeks, something terribly hurt and humiliated, and he looks down at the floorboards. "There's no need to mince your words to spare my feelings, Athos," he says, with a pale imitation of his usual joking tone, and he looks so withdrawn, suddenly. 

Porthos sits down beside him and puts an arm around his shoulders, flashing Athos a hard look, and Athos grimaces, looking exasperated--with himself, Constance knows, not with them. Athos has spent so long in his life without gentleness, she can't fault him for not knowing how to give it himself, and he tries again. "Aramis," he begins, his voice softer, but Aramis holds up a sharp hand, curling into Porthos' shoulder.

"Don't," Aramis says, his voice hard. It's a brittle hardness, though, cracking already, and when he looks up at Athos, the edges of it fracture visibly more. "Are you speaking as my commanding officer, Athos," he asks bitingly, "or the man who shares my bed?"

His words are precise, perfectly calculated to hurt-- _the man who shares my bed,_ not _lover_ or even _friend,_ or any of the other tender things Aramis has called him--and Constance can see the jabs hit their mark as Athos winces. She wants to step between them, tell them to stop deliberately being cruel, but one thing they all learned very early on was not to step into the little disputes they all fell in and out of. Besides, this is (technically) Musketeer business.

Athos doesn't rise to the bait. Instead, he moves to sit on Aramis' other side, and Porthos gives him a _careful_ look over Aramis' head. "You know I speak as both," Athos says, looking so intently at Aramis that Aramis has to meet his eyes, injured brown coming tentatively up to steadfast blue. "Your commanding officer cannot take a soldier into battle who is not ready--"

Aramis scoffs and looks away, his flush rising again, and Athos reaches out to cover Aramis' hand with his. Aramis looks back at him, startled--Athos so rarely touches in situations like this. Athos tilts his head slightly, giving Aramis such a familiar, exasperated look. "And _the man who shares your bed_ could not lose you from it."

The moment stretches, and finally Aramis nods, turning his hand over and lacing his fingers through Athos'. Athos' shoulders visibly slump in relief, and Constance and d'Artagnan exchange relieved looks.

"You're not _that_ indispensable, you know," Porthos says, and the dryness in his voice is somehow just the thing to break the tension in the room. Aramis laughs despite himself, and Athos shakes his head, smiling. Aramis gives Porthos a look that's a mixture of tenderness and frustration, and Porthos smiles reassuringly at him, his hand heavy and gentle on Aramis' shoulder. "We'll be fine."

Aramis nods again, leaning into him. "Yes, well," he says, his usual joking tone returning slowly, "I won't be without you, so mind you all come back."

Porthos hushes him and kisses his forehead, and Aramis reaches up with his free hand to wipe his eyes. "D'Artagnan," he says briskly, businesslike, and d'Artagnan starts, moving forward. "I want you to take my pistol."

"Oh, Aramis--" D'Artagnan's face is a study in conflict--Aramis' pistol is _beautiful,_ but how could anyone else carry something that is so clearly and perfectly _his?_

"You're a better shot than either of them," Aramis says, and he motions to the object in question, hanging with the rest of his gear off a hook in the corner. "It's never misfired. I worry about that... _thing_ you carry."

D'Artagnan clearly bristles at the jab to his own arms, but all the same, he takes the pistol when Constance lifts it from the hook and presses it into his hands. "Okay," d'Artagnan says, blinking hard as he looks down at the weapon. He walks quickly to the bed, bends to press a fervent kiss to Aramis' lips, then hurries from the room. Constance sighs. She'd seen tears in his eyes.

"It's the Gascon in him," Aramis says, looking fondly after him. He reaches out to stroke the side of Athos' face. "Look after him."

"I always do," Athos says. He slides in a little closer, and Aramis reaches out for him, taking Athos' face in his hands and pressing their foreheads together.

They don't speak. Then Aramis sighs and reaches for the golden cross he wears. He lifts it over his own head and settles it around Athos' neck. Athos looks at him, his face unreadable, and Aramis traces a hand over the cord for a moment, his gaze heavy. He kisses Athos, sharp and fierce, then pulls away, brushing the back of his hand over his eyes.

"Come home safe," Aramis says, his voice remarkably steady as he smooths Athos' jacket. His hand lingers on the embossed spaulder, tracing the fleur-de-lis.

"Don't ride out after us," Athos says, one corner of his mouth tugging up slightly.

Aramis sniffs. "I make no promises."

Athos smiles at last, strokes his thumbs over Aramis' cheekbones, and straightens. He nods to Constance--she'll say her goodbyes at the door, before they go--and goes after d'Artagnan.

And then only Porthos remains. Aramis looks up at him, his face set in lines of worried misery, and without a word Porthos wraps him in his arms. Words don't seem to be needed, as they both hold on so tightly Constance is worried Aramis will bruise even more.

"You take care of yourself, y'hear me?" Porthos says quietly, and Aramis nods, pulling back slightly. Porthos catches his chin in one hand and makes Aramis look at him. "I mean that. Rest up, don't strain yourself, and get better. If I come home and you're still broken, I'm gonna be irritated."

Aramis laughs, a slightly watery sound, and he smiles at Porthos despite the tears glistening in his eyes. "I'll be in fighting shape for you."

"Good." Porthos studies his face, searching for something only he can see, then he nods, seeing it. He leans in to kiss Aramis, then, and Aramis melts into it, his whole body falling into Porthos' touch. After an age, slowly, reluctantly, Porthos pulls away, and Aramis chases him with a tiny, agonized sound. Porthos brushes his lips over Aramis' just once more, then takes Aramis' face in his hands and presses a kiss to his forehead. "Love you," Porthos says. "Get better."

Aramis nods, drawing himself up to something straighter, a soldier's pose. "Yeah," he says, his voice rough. "I love you, too."

Porthos smiles at him, one of those wide, beautiful smiles of his that can hold a world of warmth and love, and Aramis smiles back, _really_ smiles, for the first time all day.

Porthos looks at Constance, then. "Come see us off?"

She nods and bends to press a kiss to Aramis' hair. "Be right back," she tells him.

He sighs and nods, and the two of them go downstairs.

Athos and d'Artagnan wait in the kitchen. Athos paces the length of the room, and d'Artagnan stands with his hands tucked under his arms. Aramis' pistol rides at his hip, and he keeps glancing down, as if to double-check that it's really there.

"If anything happens to that pistol, you know he's gonna have your arse," Porthos says as they enter.

"I _know,"_ d'Artagnan says automatically, looking up at him in exasperation. Porthos grins at him, pleased to have jolted him out of his worries, and d'Artagnan rolls his eyes.

Athos drops out of his pacing abruptly, turning to Constance, and he moves to her in two steps and takes both her hands in his. "I hate to leave you like this," he says, and she can see on his face now everything he'd taken such pains to hide from Aramis--his concern, his uncertainty, and it all feels so _wrong,_ the three of them going off when it's always been four before. She hates being left behind, even if it's a little easier knowing Aramis will stay. 

She knows what she signed up for, loving four soldiers, but she still hates it.

Athos shakes his head slightly, and she can practically see all the scenarios rushing through his head--he needs to protect everyone, prepare for every eventuality. "If anything happens--"

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Athos, we can take care of ourselves," she sighs, wrapping her arms around him. She knows how to defend herself, and even injured, Aramis is one of the deadliest men in France. 

He returns her embrace more fiercely than she'd expected he would. Like this, pressed against his body, she can feel every weapon he's wearing, all the straps of armor and scabbard and rucksack, and she _hates_ it. They're going off to war without her, without Aramis, and they could _die._

Athos moves his hands to her face and kisses her, hard and fervent, and Constance tries not to cling. She doesn't want to cling. She doesn't want his last memory of her to be clinging.

She clings when he leans back. _Damn._

Athos doesn't let himself linger. He turns away, every moment sharp and purposeful, and he heads straight for the door. "I'll be outside," he says to Porthos, his voice sounding slightly thick, and Constance's heart aches at the sound. Their Athos. Never lets himself feel any emotion too deeply.

Porthos sighs and steps up to embrace her, too. She throws her arms around his neck, because she knows it won't spook Porthos the way it can Athos, and he holds her just as fiercely. He kisses her, too--several times, each kiss a slightly different shade of love and apology--then sighs, resting his forehead against hers. "Don't let him run mad," he says, stroking her hair. "The both of you stay busy."

Constance rolls her eyes, laughing a little bitterly. "With the washing and the mending while you're out on the battlefield. Right."

Porthos traces the soft pads of his thumbs over her cheekbones. "Better than sitting in the kitchen and working yourself up into a fit imagining the worst, yeah?" She sticks her tongue out at him, because she can do that with Porthos, and he laughs softly, kissing her again. "Love you," he whispers. 

She nods, swallowing a lump in her throat. "Love you, too," she says. She strokes his hair, managing a smile for him, then pats his cheek, motioning to the door. "Go before I make a mess of myself crying. I don't want you to have to see that." He smiles, kisses her forehead, and goes after Athos.

And then it's just her and d'Artagnan, and she barely hesitates a second before throwing herself into his arms. He holds her so tightly, she hopes it will leave a mark, so she'll have the imprint of his arms on her skin. Maybe it'll last her through the days she'll have to be without him. 

"Please be careful," she whispers, because she can say that to him--she'd feel silly saying it to Porthos or Athos, trained soldiers as they are, but her sweet young d'Artagnan, she _has_ to tell. She's going to cry, she can feel it burning at the back of her throat. "Please, sweetheart, _please."_

"We will be," he promises, and kisses her just once, sweet and sharp. "You and Aramis take care."

That said, they stand there for a long time, just holding on tight and trying to fix each other's touch and face in memory. Then finally Constance pulls away, wiping her eyes. "Go, go, you have to go."

"I love you," he says, and oh, she can't help it, she melts into him again, holding on tighter than ever. 

"I love you," she whispers, then pushes him to the door. 

He looks back, just once, as he pauses on the doorstep, and he smiles reassuringly at her, his face framed in sunlight.

If it's the last time she's ever going to see him, it's how she'll want to remember him.

Then he's gone, and she scolds herself for being so stupid. Of course he'll come home. They'll all come home. If the Cardinal himself didn't manage to kill them, some ruffian rebels certainly--certainly--

She blinks back tears and hurries back up the stairs to Aramis. She doesn't want to be alone.

Aramis sits on the edge of the bed still, just where she'd left him, with his head buried in his hands. He lifts his head at the sound of her footsteps, rubbing hastily at his eyes, but she can see the shine he can't quite wipe away.

Constance moves instantly to sit beside him, and he reaches out to her. She holds him tightly, as tightly as he holds her, and when he buries his face in her hair, she presses her face into his neck and tries not to cry. 

The bed has never seemed _too_ big before.

The rest of the evening passes in a daze. Constance goes through the motions of a normal day, tidying the house, bringing a few shirts that need mending up to the bedroom, so she can keep Aramis company. She hasn't felt like this since Jacques was still alive, like she was just performing a part of a normal housewife, with her mind miles away.

Aramis does very little. He mends a shirt, when she puts it in his hands, because Aramis really _could_ have been a seamstress and it halves her work, and she thinks he's grateful for the distraction. It proves that his sprained wrist is better, at least. They don't talk very much--at least, not about anything that matters. She tells him about Bernadette on the corner, and how she's taken a lover, and that Madame Delepine doesn't approve, so it's very tense on market days. Aramis hangs on her every word, and she notices how he very deliberately doesn't look out the window at all.

It's a relief when they go to bed, to not have to put on the pretense of everything being all right anymore. Constance banks the fire low, blows out all the candles, and crawls into bed beside Aramis. They're both so bone-tired from worry that they barely bother to strip down like they normally do, and Constance regrets it almost instantly when they can't press skin-to-skin. Chemise-to-shirt is fine, she supposes, but it reminds her too much of how she used to sleep with Jacques. 

She wants to sit up and strip down, but the minute her head hit the pillow, Aramis drew her close, his arms locked tight around her, and she wouldn't move for the world.

That, at least, is _not_ like sleeping with Jacques, and she falls asleep easily enough.

\- - -

Constance wakes to the sound of whimpering. Blearily, she lifts her head--it sounds like a dog, she thinks first; tiny, animal sounds of fear and distress, and did they leave the window open? No, she remembers closing it.

And then she feels a shudder through the mattress, accompanied by another small, pained sound, and she realizes.

She rolls over, praying it's not what she thinks, and her heart turns to lead in her chest when she sees Aramis, curled slightly in on himself, his face drawn in distress and fast asleep. She can see his eyes flickering back and forth beneath closed lids, and his breathing comes in harsh, irregular gasps. He makes another frightened sound and his hands, pulled close to his chest, clench and unclench. 

She's never dealt with one of his nightmares before. He hasn't had any since they all started sharing a bed, but Porthos has told her about how bad they used to be, how they'd leave him drained and exhausted for days. 

Constance wishes desperately for Porthos or Athos, even d'Artagnan--what is she supposed to _do?_ Should she touch him, try to wake him? Will that make it worse? Maybe she should just let it run its course...

Just as she thinks that, Aramis flinches in his sleep and makes the most awful, agonized sound, pressing his face into the pillow, and Constance can't bear it. He's crying, she realizes--in the faint light of the fire's embers, she can see tears glistening in his eyelashes.

She can't just watch him suffer, so she reaches out and puts a firm hand on his shoulder, like she thinks Porthos would do, if he were here. "Aramis?"

He jerks, shakes his head, and pushes his face even harder into the pillow. He lets out another pained sound, and she resists the urge to shake him. A harsh wake-up would be worse, surely.

"Aramis," she tries again, stroking her hand over his arm. "Aramis, it's okay, you're safe--"

"Athos," he calls, his voice sleep-rough and cracking, and her heart _breaks._ Constance shifts closer, until the soft curves of her body press against the tense and sharp planes of his. 

"Aramis, it's me, it's Constance," she says, touching his arms, his face, and she's scared, so scared, suddenly--she doesn't know what to do, what if he's not all right when he wakes up, why didn't Porthos tell her how to _handle_ this? "Aramis, please, sweetheart, _please_ wake up--"

But he doesn't wake. Constance casts around wildly for something, anything, and then remembers the pitcher of water they keep on the nightstand. She stretches around, dips her fingers into it and shudders at the coolness when everything else seems so hot. 

She's instantly grateful for it, though, because when she lays her cool fingers across his brow, Aramis gasps. His eyes snap open, and he stares at her, his eyes dull and void of recognition--

Then he swallows, his eyes coming slowly back alight, and he lets out a shaky breath. "Constance." 

She nearly sobs with relief, nodding furiously, and she strokes her thumb over his cheek, trying desperately not to cry.

Aramis closes his eyes and breathes, and he doesn't look well--pale and sick, and she wonders what he was dreaming, that made him call out for Athos with that terrible fear in his voice.

She doesn't want to ask. She hopes he's forgotten already.

"It's all right," she says uselessly, stroking his face. "It's all right, I've got you." She can't say _they're all right, they'll be fine,_ because she doesn't _know,_ and what if they won't be? What are the two of them going to do?

All she can say is "I've got you," over and over, as Aramis tries to breathe through whatever horrors he was seeing, and stay close to him.

She runs her hand gently over his hair, the way Porthos does, sometimes, when he's trying to soothe him, and Aramis bites back a sob.

She's almost expecting it when he lunges forward to kiss her. Her arms come around him almost instantly, and Aramis rolls her down into the mattress, kissing her with single-minded desperation. 

Then he chokes out a sharp sound of pain, and she remembers his _damn_ side-- "Okay," she says again, "okay, it's okay--" And she rolls him onto his back instead, climbing over him and pinning him to the mattress with her hips, her thighs tight around his waist. 

Because she wants him, too, suddenly, blindingly--they tear at each other's clothes, Aramis pushing her chemise up with hands fumbling in their haste, and she drags his shirt off his shoulders so she can bite at his neck. This is the only thing that still feels right, even if it's just the two of them--she wants him, in every way, the ways she's only ever wanted the four of them, and this is still sacred, even if everything else is broken and wrong.

They come together frantically, with no finesse at all, and Aramis gasps for air as Constance slides down on him, fucking him quick and rough. Her chemise tore like paper, and its remains tangle with his shirt on the floor, but she doesn't _care,_ she only cares about the burning slide of his body against hers. She's gasping and moaning loud enough to raise the Devil, and she doesn't care about that either--Aramis only thrusts up harder with every sound she makes, and she wants to cry out with every motion, scream out her pain and her worry and make them into something beautiful and loving, like this, just like this.

He's holding onto her so tightly that she's worried about his arm, so she takes his hands in hers and pushes them down to the mattress--she's not _thinking,_ she doesn't stop to consider, she just needs him to stop using that arm. Aramis -keens- underneath her, his body going slack as she holds his wrists down, and she braces herself with them, using it as leverage to fuck him even faster. 

"Constance, Constance," Aramis gasps over and over, arching back against the mattress, and in the morning she'll feel guilty when she sees the faint bruises she's left around his wrists--right now, though, she can tighten her grip and hold him fast, and Aramis will just chant _yes, harder, more_ and that's all that matters. They mark each other, lay claim in every way--they feel so _alone,_ together as they are, and the visible signs that yes, they are together, they do have each other, are going to get them through this.

She may be on top, but Aramis still knows just what she likes, and as she starts to falter, feeling the first shocks of orgasm start to race through her, Aramis takes over, planting his feet and snapping his hips up to meet her. He fucks her into coming and then fucks her through it, fucks her through her first comedown and her second orgasm that hits her when she's barely recovered from the first, and no one knows how to coax her body to spasming, sparking heights like Aramis does. Her cunt tingles like a lightning strike when Aramis finally comes, his eyes squeezed tight and his body shuddering, and Constance drops her head to his shoulder, gasping for breath as they both recover.

She doesn't know why they didn't do this _first._ The air's thick with sweat and the heavy tang of sex, and even with all that, it feels better. They haven't lost any of their connection with the departure of the other three. They still have each other.

That doesn't mean they don't both feel the _absence_ like a physical wound.

She lets go of his wrists, somewhat abashedly realizing she's still holding them, and Aramis' arms come up instantly to encircle her. He holds onto her so, so tightly, and he's still inside her when they both fall asleep.

\- - -

The next few days fall into the same pattern. Aramis stays in bed--mindful of Porthos' last orders, she thinks--and she brings her sewing upstairs to keep him company. Aramis helps, since sewing isn't much of a strain on his arm, and if he's pale and drained when they first wake, every morning, he rallies by lunchtime. 

"You're taking pride in your work," she says to him with a smile on the third day, when he asks if he can rip out a seam and redo it. 

"It was crooked," Aramis says haughtily, but he flushes with pride just the same. He picks at his stitches and shrugs, half-smiling. "I mean, if I can't be useful on the battlefield, I'd like to at least be useful at something."

Constance sighs, stabbing her needle into the skirt she's altering with more force than is strictly necessary. "I know the feeling."

He looks confused for a moment, then stricken, and he sets the shirt aside, reaching out to her with his good hand. "Oh, Constance, I didn't mean--"

She shakes her head. "It's fine. I know what you meant." She looks up at him, trying to smile, but if he can't stand just a few days being left behind, he should try her end of it. It's a constant ache in her chest, always being left behind and left out.

Aramis sighs and reaches out to her again, gingerly shifting his weight on the bed. "I can't come to you, so will you please come to me?"

She spent so many years with a husband whose touch she loathed that she's still starved for it, so in a matter of moments, Constance finds that she's set her sewing aside and settled onto the bed next to Aramis. She really shouldn't be this easy, she thinks ruefully, but by then she's safely tucked against Aramis' chest, and she's not regretting it for a second. "I always wish I could go with you," she sighs. "I _can_ fight.'

"We know you can," Aramis assures her. "Believe me, I haven't forgotten the time _I_ had the baby and _you_ had the sword." She laughs, remembering, and he smiles. He plays gently with her curls, twining his fingers around each heavy lock. "If it were up to me, you'd be with us."

"Who's it up to, then?" she asks, twisting to look up at him. "Athos? Treville? Just let me know who I need to impress."

Aramis chuckles, and his head falls back into the pillows. "Athos knows better. And I think Treville turns a blind eye to a lot more than we think he does." He lets out a heavy breath, holding her close with his good arm. "Maybe we need to petition the king," he muses. 

She laughs against his chest, hugging him tightly, and he squeezes her shoulders. "A special dispensation for women who spend far too much time with Musketeers," she teases as she props herself up on his chest and grins at him.

Aramis smiles up at her. For the first time in a few days, the shadows in his eyes have lifted. "Has a nice ring to it," he agrees. 

She ducks her head, blushing slightly. Aramis reaches for her chin with his bandaged arm. His fingers are gentle as he lifts her face back up, and he pushes himself up on his good elbow.

His lips are soft, almost sweet on hers, and Constance sighs when he pulls back.

"You're so much braver than I am," Aramis says quietly, stroking her cheek. "You do this all the time, and I can barely stand a few days."

She shakes her head, because he shouldn't be hard on himself, but she can't deny she appreciates the recognition. "Staying home and waiting takes practice, like anything," she says, and kisses him again. 

Aramis laughs softly and pulls her down. They don't get out of bed for the rest of the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, you can find me on [my tumblr.](http://tehriz.tumblr.com)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> News travels quickly through the market. Luckily, relief comes from an unexpected quarter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! I needed to get out the next chapter of Unus Pro Omnibus, and my personal life took a brief, sharp dip into hell that made writing this literally painful. BUT WE'RE BACK NOW, YAY.

"Please?" he says beseechingly, looking up at her with wide brown eyes. 

"Aramis, I don't know," she sighs, wiping her hands on her apron. "Going to the market is not going downstairs, and you know it."

Aramis makes a disgruntled sound and looks down at the table. They're in the kitchen, and Aramis has been slowly making progress over the past few days: getting out of bed, carefully going up and down the stairs. He can walk without pain now--at least through the house, but that is _not_ as far as it is to the market.

"I just don't want you to take things too quickly," she says. "That was an awful fall."

"I've had worse," Aramis mutters, like a petulant child. Then he sighs, looking up at her. "Constance, please, I haven't left the house in a week."

Her restless, wild Aramis. He must be going mad, she thinks ruefully. And he _does_ need to start moving around again. 

"Oh, very _well,"_ she says, setting out her basket. "You can come with me."

Any of her lingering misgivings disappear when Aramis' entire face lights up with happiness. He looks a dozen years younger, and he reaches out to her, beaming. He grabs her hand and absolutely covers it in kisses, then pulls her into his lap and kisses her again. "Thank you, thank you, thank you, my love," he laughs, kissing her nose, her cheeks, her chin. He's smiling wider than he has since the others left, and Constance laughs, pushing her hands through his wild hair. 

"All right, all right," she laughs, getting back up. "That's quite enough of that from you. Go and get dressed--and mind you put that arm in a sling!" she calls after him as he hurries upstairs. 

She _wanted_ him to put his arm up so he wouldn't be tempted to use it. But he comes back down in his full uniform--save for his blue sash, which binds his arm to his chest and matches his cloak perfectly, and she knows what he's doing instantly. It is perfectly warm out; he doesn't need the cloak. But the dark leather of his coat and the deep blue of the sling and cloak heighten the slight pallor he's gained from a week of being inside.

She arches an eyebrow at him, and Aramis looks innocently back. "What? Too overdone?"

She shakes her head and picks up her basket.

Aramis plays his part with gusto as they walk down the road to the market, smiling and tipping his hat to every one of their neighbors, but malingering just enough to get the attention. It's not that their neighbors don't _like_ the others--Porthos endeared himself to the rest of the street by calming a frightened team of carriage horses once, Athos' impeccable manners have impressed his good breeding on everyone, and Constance doesn't think _anyone_ could dislike d'Artagnan--but Aramis' infallible charm and good looks mean that he's the favorite. Everyone smiles and says hello, and Aramis' arm bound up in its sling draws a great deal of concerned sympathy.

And quite a few better bargains for Constance, she has to admit. The women at the market blush and coo over Aramis and slip more food into her basket than she strictly paid for, and the men barter far less harshly out of respect for the wounded Musketeer beside her. Aramis basks shamelessly in their respect and adoration. 

"You are impossible," she says fondly to him as they leave the baker's stall, loaded down with pastries she definitely hadn't paid for.

"What an absolutely lovely day," Aramis says brightly, looking up at the overcast sky. He's sweating in his cloak, but he's not going to take it off any time soon, she can tell. It seems a little silly to her, but she knows how much he loves being loved--and she's delighted to see him so happy. He's been brooding too much about the others being away, and it's a harmless entertainment for him.

"Are you feeling well?" she asks, and gives him a narrow look when his wide and innocent face turns to her. "No lies, Aramis."

He ducks his head and smiles. "I can never fool you, can I?"

"No, so don't start trying."

Aramis leans affectionately against her, just for a moment. "I'm getting tired," he admits. "The side's aching a bit, but I'm fine to stay out until we're done."

"This is our last stop," she tells him as they walk over to the chandler's stall. Staying up all hours of the night has seriously reduced their supply of candles.

"Good afternoon, Madame Bonacieux," Monsieur Reyer calls as she approaches. "And is this one of your boarders?"

"Yes, monsieur," Constance says with a smile. She does like to show off her handsome and accomplished boys. "Aramis, this is Monsieur Reyer, our eminent chandler."

"Your candles burn very well, monsieur," Aramis says, sweeping his hat from his head and bowing. It's a trifle overdone, and Constance steps on his foot. 

"Ah, one of the King's Musketeers," Reyer says approvingly, as he notices the insignia on Aramis' shoulder. "Have you just returned from the front, monsieur? Your injury, I mean."

Aramis' smile goes slightly taut, and Constance steps slightly closer to him on the pretext of examining a few bars of soap. "An older injury, I'm afraid," Aramis says politely. "It prevented me from joining my brothers."

Reyer shrugs. "Might be better for you, eh?" He's a bluff, red-faced man, usually sweaty from the hot work of making soap and candles, and ordinarily Constance quite likes him. When he says things like that, though, she's not sure.

"Whatever could you mean, monsieur?" she asks, keeping her voice as cool and polite as she can. 

He laughs in loud surprise. "You haven't heard, then? I thought with so many Musketeers in your house, Madame Bonacieux, that you'd know more about their doings than the rest of us!"

Constance smiles blandly up at him. "As you so noted, though, monsieur, nearly all my Musketeers are away at present."

He strokes his chin. "Well, true. My sister and her daughter live out by the border, and they came to stay with me yesterday. People are fleeing in _droves_ \--those rebels are burning everything in sight. The Musketeers are fighting for their lives out there."

Aramis doesn't speak or move beside her, but Constance feels the sudden tension shimmer through his body. "I'm sure a lot of it's gossip, monsieur," she says, more for Aramis' sake than for Reyer's. She's sick to her stomach, suddenly, her equilibrium badly shaken by the image of the countryside afire. Porthos. Athos. _D'Artagnan._

He snorts. "Maybe, madame, but my sister saw a group of Musketeers run down herself. They'd better get some more men down there before they're completely overrun--meaning no disrespect to your fellows, monsieur," he adds hastily, looking at Aramis.

She looks up at him, too, and her chest goes tight. Aramis' face has shuttered, and his bright eyes are cold again. _A group of musketeers run down._ She curses inwardly and pays Reyer for a handful of candles, then takes Aramis' arm. "We're going home," she tells him, and he follows without arguing.

He's gone back into his head again--he barely looks like he notices or cares where he's going, he isn't saying hello to anyone, he doesn't even seem to notice the greetings people give them (or the stares, at their interlinked arms, but Constance can't care about that, right now). She's barely containing her own worry, but Aramis has completely gone again.

"We don't know if any of that's true," she says in an undertone to him, trying to keep the tremor from her voice. "Aramis, are you listening to me?"

"I'm listening to them," Aramis says shortly, and he nods to the knots of people in the marketplace, all huddling close and talking intently. And when she listens, she hears: they're all talking about the happenings on the borders. The refugees are bringing their stories in, and since it's market day, everyone's talking. It took the better part of the morning for the news to start getting around, but now it has.

The looks everyone sends at Aramis are sharply pitying, now, and Constance squeezes his wrist. "We're going home," she says again, more forcefully.

"I should be there," he says, something dark and heavy in his voice. "I'm fine, I can ride again--"

"You are _not_ fine," she hisses. "You _just_ told me you're tired and in pain, and we've barely been out for an hour."

"I _know,"_ Aramis says. All at once his tension just drops away, and he sounds exhausted. "I _know,_ Constance."

There's nothing she can say, nothing to _do,_ except drag him home and put him up in bed. Aramis goes without a fight, his eyes dull, and he winces every time her fingers move over his injured side as she helps him out of his clothes. She doesn't know if he's just worn out, or if he's made his injury worse. She's not sure it matters, right now.

She lays down beside him, tired and worried too, and she can't stop thinking about it. Fighting, fire-- _a group of Musketeers run down--_

She falls into a fitful sleep beside Aramis, her worry and the morning light keeping her from anything deep or comforting.

Aramis wakes her screaming for Porthos in his sleep. Constance jerks upright to see his face pale and twisted, covered in tears, and it takes forever to wake him, this time. She shakes him and shakes him, calling his name, but it takes a smart slap across the mouth to finally jerk him from his nightmare.

"I'm sorry," she says instantly, feeling horribly guilty as he presses a hand to his cheek.

Aramis blinks dazedly and shakes his head, and his eyes are dull with exhaustion, never mind that he was asleep not half a moment earlier. "Thank you for waking me," he says, and curls into her side. There's no emotion in his voice, and Constance doesn't know what to _do._

"Do you want to talk about it?" she asks tentatively, stroking his shoulder.

Aramis sighs. "What's there to talk about?" His voice is flat and tired, heavy words falling from his lips. "I see them dead every time I close my eyes, only now there's fire." He presses his face into her neck. "It always used to be snow," he whispered. 

She pulls him close, rocking him like she would a child, and whispers every gentle thing she can imagine--that she's here, she's not going to leave him alone, and that she knows their loves are well, that they're strong and clever and brave and would fight their way through hell to come back to them. 

It's barely afternoon, but Aramis falls asleep again, his brow smoother, easier, and Constance lets him rest. She lies beside him, watching him sleep, and every time his face starts to twitch into a worried frown or frightened look, she shakes him and murmurs softly until he eases back into something restful.

He's deep in dreamless sleep when she hears the sound of hooves in the street outside. Their narrow little lane rarely has horses come through, and she wonders if it's something official. 

She gets up as carefully as she can so she doesn't disturb him, and Aramis stays asleep, the rise and fall of his chest unaltered, as she slips from the room and moves quickly down the stairs.

She can't see anything from the kitchen window, so she goes through the foyer, running a hand over her sleep-flattened curls to get them into something respectable, then opens the door to peer out.

She shrieks.

"Hello to you too, my love," d'Artagnan says with a smile as he swings down from his horse.

They nearly crash to the ground as she flings herself on him--he's unsteady on his feet, and she takes his foolish head in her hands and kisses him fiercely before pulling away to look him over. "What is it, what have you done to yourself?"

His left leg is bulky with bandages under his trousers, and he grimaces as he leans on her to avoid putting weight on it. "I had to borrow someone else's horse, and the stupid beast spooked at the cannons and threw me. Couldn't get my foot clear."

"Just a sprain?" she asks, hardly daring to believe it. She was imagining death and blood and wounds, and he's just wrenched his leg, the beautiful idiot--

He makes a face. "Worse than that, but I'll see what Aramis has to say."

Constance clutches his jacket, suddenly dizzy with relief herself. "Oh, d'Artagnan, he'll be so happy to see you. We've heard the worst." She can't say what's really on her mind, not here in the street with everyone watching, but from the sudden shadowed look on understanding on d'Artagnan's face, he understands enough.

"Jacques," he says, turning, and for the first time Constance notices the stable boy from the garrison riding on the horse's back. "Take him back to the stables, and if I send for you, make sure to bring him here double-quick, all right?"

The youth nods, smiling shyly at Constance, and she sweeps him a pretty little curtsy just to watch him blush. He rides away, and Constance helps d'Artagnan inside. He can barely walk, drawing a sharp breath every time he has to put any weight on his left leg, and while she winces in sympathy at each pained gasp, she's so relieved that it's only this bad.

The door closes behind them, and the moment it's just them in the foyer, d'Artagnan turns and kisses her. "How have you been?" he asks in a low voice. "How's he?"

"Physically better," she sighs, stroking her fingers over his cheeks. "But his nightmares are back, and worse, and--oh, sweetheart, I'm so glad you're home." Tears burn at the edge of her eyes, and she presses her face into his chest. "I love him so much, but I can't handle this by myself."

"Lucky I'm here now, then," d'Artagnan says gently, kissing her hair. "Is he asleep?"

She nods, lifting her head and wiping her eyes. "Can you manage the stairs?"

D'Artagnan gives the stairs a look of flat disgust. "Probably," he says, and he sounds so disgruntled that it startles a laugh out of her. 

"Oh, love," she sighs, throwing her arms around him. Having one-fourth of her worries just vanish is a heady feeling.

She has no idea how Aramis sleeps through getting d'Artagnan up the stairs. There's a great deal of cursing, and her boy is pale and sweating by the time they reach the bedroom. 

Aramis lies curled into himself on the bed, and d'Artagnan draws a sharp breath. His face goes impossibly tender, and Constance is struck, suddenly, by how much d'Artagnan truly loves these men, how devoted he is to them.

She touches his face, unable to say anything, and he presses his cheek into her hand, his eyes never leaving Aramis. "He looks like he hasn't slept in a month," he sighs, and Constance bites her lip. She knows he looks bad, but she's been here to see the progression. It must be startling to d'Artagnan.

"Come on," she says softly, and helps him to the bed.

When the bed dips, Aramis stirs. "Constance?" he asks sleepily, starting to push himself upright.

D'Artagnan touches his shoulder and eases him back down. "Easy, Aramis," he says softly. "Go back to sleep."

Aramis nods drowsily, settling his head back into the pillow, and he lets out a soft sigh.

Then his dark eyes snap open, and he rolls over to stare up at d'Artagnan.

"It's just me, before you get your hopes up," d'Artagnan says hastily. "I--"

He doesn't get anything else out before Aramis lunges up and tackles him down to the bed, covering his startled young face in kisses. 

"I didn't want to wake you," d'Artagnan laughs, pushing a hand through Aramis' tousled curls as Aramis presses their foreheads together.

"You have my permission to wake me whenever you come home alive," Aramis says, tracing his fingertips over d'Artagnan's lips. He sighs deeply and brushes his nose along d'Artagnan's. "Oh, my little love, I've been so worried about you."

"Your pistol saved my life three times," d'Artagnan tells him. "Athos' twice. Porthos' once. I counted."

Aramis laughs brokenly and kisses him again, and Constance watches with tears in her eyes. Aramis looks like he's come back to life.

"Why are you here?" he asks then, frowning slightly and propping himself up on his good arm. "Treville wouldn't send you off the lines if you could still fight."

D'Artagnan sighs and sits up, and Aramis settles back beside him, resting his chin on d'Artagnan's shoulder. "A horse threw me and I couldn't get my foot clear of the stirrup. I can't walk, so Treville sent me home with some dispatches, and Athos made it very clear that if I put any weight on this leg at all, he'll thrash me when he gets home." D'Artagnan rolled his eyes and added, "And not in a way I'll enjoy, either."

Aramis laughs, and he presses a kiss to d'Artagnan's cheek. "That sounds like him. So--" His voice falters slightly, and d'Artagnan tilts his head to look into Aramis' luminous brown eyes. "He's all right, then? Porthos too?"

D'Artagnan smiles gently. "They're fine," he assures him, with the air of one who expects to say the same thing over and over again for the next week. "Athos is in a foul temper, since the rebels were outrunning us at every turn, and Porthos has been grousing for days about Bernard and Felix's total lack of discipline, but they're fine."

"Oh, he can talk about lack of discipline," Aramis scoffs, but his shoulders have lifted, his eyes alight again.

"And that reminds me," d'Artagnan says, reaching into his jacket. He pulls out a slightly crumpled letter, and Constance's heart seizes when she see's Athos' neat writing on the outside. "This is for you two."

They both reach for it in unison, two sets of hands fumbling to open it, and Constance sees that it's addressed to _Mme. Bonacieux_ because Athos is _Athos,_ and won't let himself do anything the easy way.

They unfold the letter, and Constance sees that it's written half in French and half in Latin--the French is addressed to her; the Latin bears no salutation and is, she presumes, for Aramis, since she can't read Latin at all. His paranoia irritates and charms her at the same time--she loves that he cares to try and protect them, but for heaven's sake, _d'Artagnan_ was carrying it.

She and Aramis press their heads together and read. 

_Constance--_

_Porthos and I hope you're well, and that Aramis hasn't driven you completely mad yet. I regret I must ask you to look after d'Artagnan now as well--if I could trust them both to care for themselves, I would; I cannot, and ask you._

_We are well--it isn't easy, but this is hardly our first adventure. Rest assured that no matter what you hear, it will take more than that to finish us._

_Porthos sends his love, and says to add he knows you must miss him worse than all the rest of us, and not to worry, he'll look after me. I would respond with indignation were I not sure that he's right._

_We miss you terribly._

And then the Latin--it's written out in lines, like a poem, but she's sure that's just Athos being careful. She cannot imagine Athos writing poetry under any circumstances. 

She doesn't know what it says, but Aramis laughs softly, his voice slightly thick. "He never fails to surprise me," he says, tracing a finger over the edge of the paper. "Shall I read it to you?"

Constance squirms slightly. "It's for you, not me," she hedges--she does want to read it, but it feels like it might be private.

Aramis butts his head against hers. "I can read what he wrote to you," he says, quite reasonably. "It seems only fair."

Constance sniffs. "Well, if you're going to twist my arm about it."

Aramis laughs, and reads the Latin aloud to them. She doesn't understand it, but she loves the way it sounds, flowing over his tongue like ritual, and it feels deliciously wicked, taking Church language and using it for their secret life.

Then Aramis puts an arm around her and leans in close. He rests his cheek on Constance's hair as he reads it back again in French. _"I cannot write much. The words mean little, when you have always used them better than the both of us ever could."_ Aramis' voice is slightly thick, and he swallows before going on. Constance understand the feeling--words of care from Athos mean more than from anyone.

 _"We are well. The men are less so, and we wish you were here to handle them,"_ he goes on, and chuckles slightly. Then his face sobers. _"If the fighting spreads, you know what to do. Take care of the others; take care of yourself."_

Even as her chest clenches with worry, Constance realizes how tactful of Athos it is to give Aramis something to do _here,_ something as warlike as he's used to. Athos' insight never fails to surprise her, either.

Aramis draws a deep breath and nuzzles his cheek against Constance's hair--comforting himself, she knows. _"We cannot balance without you,"_ he says, his voice soft, _"and we think of you constantly. Porthos will not let me end this without saying we love you-- Thus, with love, Athos."_

She sighs, reaching out and tracing her fingers across the signature at the bottom. "Athos." 

"I always knew an incurable romantic was lurking under that dour exterior," Aramis said, the softness in his voice betraying his flippant tone. He lifts his head and smiles at d'Artagnan. "Thank you."

D'Artagnan's smile tugs up at the corner. "My pleasure," he says, his eyes warm. Then he blinks, as if remembering, and pushes himself a little closer on the bed. "Which reminds me, Porthos sent a message, too."

"Oh?" Aramis asks distractedly, half-turning to him. "He's not usually one for letters."

"It's not a letter," D'Artagnan informs him with a perfectly straight face. Then he reaches out and grabs the neck of Aramis' shirt, and hauls him forward into a rough, demanding kiss.

Aramis groans and drops the letter to the sheets, his hands coming up to slide through d'Artagnan's long hair. Constance prudently puts the letter aside--Athos confessing anything should be saved forever--then sits back on her heels and watches. As much as she loves Aramis, has loved the time they've had alone together--she's so, so glad someone else can handle him for a little while.

And he needs the others. Aramis' heart isn't meant for just one person; it's too generous and too needy all at once, and he seems more alive than he has in days with one of his lovers returned to him. D'Artagnan rises up onto his knees, holding Aramis' face between his hands how Porthos would, and Constance can see the way he licks into Aramis' mouth. D'Artagnan always surprises them all with how he can be in the bedroom--by turns he's playful and submissive, letting them fuck him and manhandle him and call him the filthy names he loves, all with a twinkle of mischief in his eye that says he'll still be their arrogant young Musketeer come the afterglow.

But then, sometimes, he can startle them with how forceful he can be, how demanding, and Constance still thinks back fondly on the night when the rest of them watched as he fucked Aramis to a shivering mess, using his youthful stamina just to go, and go, and go to a point where none of the rest of them could follow. 

Today promises to be another day like that.

She catches Aramis' shoulders and eases him gently down to the mattress when he lets d'Artagnan's body bear him back, and Aramis arches up to kiss her as d'Artagnan's kisses turn biting down his neck.

"That was just the first part of the message," d'Artagnan laughs breathlessly, lifting his head. "Do you want the rest of it now or later?"

"Now," Aramis orders him, and hauls d'Artagnan up by his hair to kiss him again. "Assuming the rest of it is to fuck me."

D'Artagnan grins wolfishly down at him. "He says he doesn't trust you to stay in bed until you're well again, so I'm supposed to fuck you until you can't move."

Aramis growls and pushes up into him, vibrant, _alive_ for the first time in days, and d'Artagnan rolls with his motions, on his knees to avoid putting weight on his ankle. "Now," Aramis says, his hands coming up to unlace d'Artagnan's doublet. "Now, now, _now."_

D'Artagnan nods, his dark eyes hot, and he looks swiftly up at Constance. "Anything I need to be careful of?" he asks, tilting his head at Aramis. "Anything he won't tell me?"

She laughs, sliding closer so Aramis can pillow his head against her thigh, and she runs her fingers through his hair. "His side's still tender, and I'd mind the wrist a little longer, but I think he's fine for this."

"I'm still here," Aramis reminds them, reaching up to draw d'Artagnan down. "And I believe promises were made about fucking me until I couldn't move."

D'Artagnan goes willingly into Aramis' arms, ducking his head to sweep his nose along Aramis', trace it along his cheek and the line of his jaw, and Aramis throws his head back, his eyes falling shut. "You've missed us, haven't you?" d'Artagnan whispers, his voice a throaty rasp. 

Aramis exhales a low, wanting sigh, curling his fingers through d'Artagnan's hair. "Yes, I missed you," he breathes. "Did you miss me?"

"Yes," d'Artagnan growls, and bites sharply at the cord of Aramis' neck. Aramis' hips jerk so hard he nearly bucks him off, and d'Artagnan just laughs, reaching up to unlace Aramis' shirt. He laughs more than all the rest of them in bed, always so lively and joyful in ways the rest of them are too old and too jaded to be. They'd all lay down their lives to protect that in him, Constance thinks, watching with a smile as he and Aramis tear at each other's clothes. He's so good.

And filthy, she amends, as he snakes his hand inside Aramis' smallclothes to wrap a hand around his cock, and grins like a predator when Aramis lets out a harsh, shuddering gasp. "Missed that, too?" He's somehow the sweetest and the filthiest person she's ever met. She hopes he never changes.

"That isn't fucking me," Aramis points out, even as he wraps his hand around d'Artagnan's wrist and moves it up and down, sliding d'Artagnan's hand over himself. D'Artagnan watches with a heavy smile as Aramis' eyes fall shut and his back arches--Aramis is easily the most beautiful thing Constance has ever seen, when he's lost in pleasure, and they're all susceptible to just staring. 

"In your own time," d'Artagnan says in a pitch-perfect impression of Athos, and it startles a laugh from both Aramis and Constance. But something shadows in Aramis' face, then, almost immediately, and he looks up at d'Artagnan, biting his own lip. D'Artagnan looks instantly contrite, like he shouldn't have summoned Athos' missing presence into their thoughts, and Aramis' hand moves from d'Artagnan's wrist to stroke his cheek. 

"Come on," he whispers, pushing his hips up. "I need it, please, come on."

D'Artagnan nods, his eyes dark enough to drown in, and he makes short work of the rest of their clothes. He hisses with pain as he eases his trousers over his one leg, and Aramis reaches out to him with a soft sound of concern.

"It's all right," d'Artagnan assures him, catching Aramis' fingertips and kissing them. All his teasing drops away in the face of Aramis' need--and his own, Constance is sure, because she'd know that slight tremor in his hands, even if she couldn't see his own cock hanging slick and heavy between his legs when he settles back over Aramis. She's still fully dressed, but she doesn't care--she can feel her own wetness on the tops of her thighs, God, she could come right now if she touched herself, but this particular moment isn't about her. It's good that she's here--Aramis reaches up to ground himself by tracing a hand on her leg, and d'Artagnan keeps looking to her for confirmation, trying to make sure he's not hurting Aramis in ways that Aramis won't mention--but she doesn't need to strip down and join them.

Not yet, at least. Not until they ask.

D'Artagnan has to pull away to grab the salve from the bedside table, and Aramis buries his face in Constance's thigh, shivering. Fighting himself not to reach out and drag d'Artagnan back, she knows. And d'Artagnan knows it, too, keeping a hand tangled in Aramis' as he scrambles for the small clay jar. "I know," he says, his voice so very steady and sure, "I know, I'm coming, I know," and then he has it and he's back, pressing himself all along Aramis' front.

"We missed you, too," d'Artagnan murmurs, kissing Aramis and stroking his hands up and down his sides, mindful of the fading bruises. "We missed you so much. I thought about you every day--I've never been out in a fight like that without you and I _missed_ you, Aramis--"

Aramis winds his hands into d'Artagnan's hair and drags him close with a groan, and when he kisses him it's all teeth and tongues. Aramis wraps an arm around d'Artagnan's back, holding him tight against him, and his face looks almost pained as they kiss, shine glistening on his eyelashes. Aramis pulls d'Artagnan close like he can keep the world away just by holding him, and d'Artagnan cups Aramis' face in his hands. He kisses him purposefully, every motion strong and in control, and when he pulls back, d'Artagnan smiles down at Aramis.

"It's my turn to take care of you, now," he says. 

Aramis gives a breathless little laugh and kisses him again. "It seems so," he says, stroking d'Artagnan's hair back from his face. "Show me what you've learned, whelp."

D'Artagnan's grin turns wicked, and he reaches down for the salve. "Well, if you insist," he drawls, and flashes a grin up at Constance, too. "Keep him from squirming too much, won't you?"

Aramis sighs, arching up and looking at her, and his smile's a little dazed. "Yes, Constance, you'll keep me from squirming, won't you?"

Her only response is to smile in just the way he likes, sly and mysterious, and she slides her hands down to his shoulders, and Aramis sighs again, pushing up just to test her hold. She holds him with just a hint of pressure, and Aramis looks up at her with so much love in his dark eyes.

Then he jerks and arches with a cry. "D'Artagnan!"

Constance looks down and bites her own lip so hard she nearly draws blood. D'Artagnan's slippery fingers slide slowly up and down Aramis' dripping cock, and he's kissing his way down the line of hair on Aramis' abdomen. He takes his time, and Aramis is shaking with the effort of not bucking up by the time d'Artagnan's kissing around the base of his cock.

"Could you come twice?" d'Artagnan murmurs against the smooth skin of Aramis' thigh, biting gently at the meat of it, and Aramis holds back a strangled sound. "If I fucked you with my fingers and made you come, do you think you could come again on my cock? I do have a promise to keep, after all."

Aramis pushes greedily into his touch, and his throat works soundlessly for a moment before he manages to gasp out, "I don't know, but let's--let's find out?"

D'Artagnan smiles into the crease of Aramis' hip and thigh. "Let's," he says, and lets go of Aramis' cock, reaching for more of the salve, then sliding his hand between Aramis' legs.

Constance can't see, but she knows the motions, and she knows Aramis' body. His back bends like a bow, his mouth falling open, and when she pushes him back down to the mattress, Aramis shakes and pushes his hips down against d'Artagnan. "Yes," he says, shivering as d'Artagnan's hand works steadily. "Hurry, just _hurry,_ please--"

"The objective is 'until you can't move,'" d'Artagnan reminds him, kissing the side of Aramis' cock just to hear him whine. "Every time you fucked me until _I_ couldn't move, I remember everyone taking their time." He flicks reproachful dark eyes up at Constance.

She shrugs, stroking Aramis' forehead, and tries not to smile. "You thanked me afterward."

"I was coming down from the longest climax I'd ever had in my life," d'Artagnan reminds her. "I would have said anything." He grins up at Aramis, who's watching him with heavy-lidded eyes. "Remember how slowly she rode me? I nearly cried."

Aramis groans and nods, pressing his face into Constance's leg. "I remember that. I remember fucking you, too. Just like this."

D'Artagnan smiles and bends over him again. "Just like this," he echoes, then sucks the head of Aramis' cock into his mouth. His eyelashes are so long and dark against his cheeks, his hair falling around his face, and Aramis shudders.

"D'Artagnan," he says breathlessly, reaching down to push a hand through their boy's hair. "I missed you, too."

D'Artagnan smiles--as much as he can with his mouth full--and he rewards the comment with a particularly forceful push of his hand. Aramis' body jerks, and he spreads his legs wider, utterly wanton for it. D'Artagnan does it again, and Aramis bites off a moan, trying to push himself up into d'Artagnan's mouth and down onto his fingers at the same time.

"I've taught you well," he chokes, his body arching in waves under Constance's hold and d'Artagnan's touch. He reaches down to run his fingers through d'Artagnan's hair, tugging in just the way d'Artagnan likes to be pushed, and d'Artagnan rocks his hips against the bed before he can stop himself.

D'Artagnan pulls up with an utterly filthy wet sound, and his eyes are completely black, his face keen like he's aiming for a target when he looks at Aramis. "I want to make you feel as good as you make me," he breathes, pressing biting, sucking kisses up Aramis' thigh and across his stomach. "I want you to know I'm so fucking glad to be home with you."

Aramis shudders at the word _home,_ and his fingers tighten in d'Artagnan's hair. D'Artagnan groans his approval against the base of Aramis' cock. "My turn," d'Artagnan whispers. "My turn, Aramis."

And oh, he takes his turn with painstaking care. D'Artagnan may switch roles more than the rest of them, but he's a quick learner, and she doubts Aramis will have a sensitive place d'Artagnan can't find by the time this is over. D'Artagnan watches Aramis' every motion with sharp, dark eyes, and every gasp or moan or groan is carefully coaxed from him a second time, then a third, then a fourth, until Constance loses track of time and all Aramis' sounds have become jumbled, wordless sounds of pleading.

He finally gasps out something recognizable as d'Artagnan's name, and d'Artagnan lifts his head from where he'd been nuzzling around the base of Aramis' cock, stilling the motion of his fingers in Aramis' body. "Yes?"

Aramis mouths soundlessly for a moment, the muscles of his thighs and abdomen shuddering and jerking. "Please," he says finally, his eyes squeezed shut. "Please, please."

"I'm still waiting for you to come on my fingers," d'Artagnan says. He sounds so matter-of-fact about it. "Do you want to? Do you want to come on my fingers and then on my cock?" He's learned how Porthos can summon filthy words from thin air, too, it seems.

Aramis bites down hard on his own lip, his body shuddering down onto d'Artagnan's still hand. D'Artagnan starts a slow, aching push of a rhythm, and adds, "Because you can. We want you to. All you have to do is let go and let it happen."

His dark eyes flash up to Constance's, and all at once she knows what he's doing. 

She digs her fingertips into Aramis' shoulders, and he shivers, his body giving an involuntary jerk. It jolts d'Artagnan's fingers inside him, and Aramis lets out a startled groan. 

"Let him make you come, sweetheart," she murmurs, stroking his shoulders, holding him pinned. "He's doing it for them."

Aramis gasps, and she sees the muscles in his stomach clench. 

"They want you to be ready for them when they get home," she breathes. "They want you practiced at taking it again, Aramis."

D'Artagnan looks up at her with so much love in his eyes, and he dips his head to kiss the sharp line of Aramis' trembling hipbone. "And we want to see you come undone," he says softly, and licks a long, wet stroke up Aramis' cock.

Aramis' entire body seizes, and he chokes on a high gasp as he comes--his back arches, his lithe form twisting under d'Artagnan, and he paints his own stomach with glistening strands of milky white. D'Artagnan kisses the side of Aramis' cock, sloppy and wet, with too much tongue--which coaxes out another quivering moan and pulse of seed, and he gets a thick strand of come across his face for his troubles. Aramis lets out a shaky groan when he looks down and sees d'Artagnan smiling up at him with come glistening across his cheekbones.

"You're utterly filthy," Constance tells him, her voice unsteady and her thighs trembling underneath Aramis' head.

D'Artagnan grins and strokes the thumb of his free hand over his own cheek, wiping away Aramis' come. He sucks his thumb into his mouth for just long enough to make them both groan, and smiles wickedly at the two of them. "Well, yes," he says--then moves the hand he still has buried in Aramis.

Aramis cries out, bucking, and d'Artagnan freezes, looking anxiously at his face. "Aramis?"

 _"Please,"_ he gasps, "please, more--" And it's so far from the words Constance was expecting-- _give me a moment_ or _it's too intense,_ anything but _more,_ so soon after.

"Can you take it?" d'Artagnan asks, his voice low, only half-teasing. 

Aramis takes a deep breath and nods, his head falling back against Constance's leg. He gets a firmer grip on her leg, and she reaches up to trail her fingers over his, reassuring him with her touch. "Please," Aramis says again, his eyelashes dark against his cheeks. "I want to feel it, please."

D'Artagnan drops his head against Aramis' thigh--not even teasing, just needing a moment to collect himself, and he presses a gentle kiss to the tender inside of Aramis' leg. "All right," he says, and glances up to Constance. She nods, and d'Artagnan closes his eyes and breathes. His free hand is shaking where it rests on Aramis' hip, and he kisses Aramis' leg again, steadying himself.

He stretches up, then, sliding all the way up Aramis' body--presses chest to chest, hips to hips, and Aramis lets out a low moan, wrapping his arms around d'Artagnan and holding him close. "D'Artagnan," he sighs. "Please."

Constance wonders if he knows what it _does_ to them, God, to hear him beg like this--only it's not begging, is it, if he knows they're going to give it to him? They'll do anything for him, anything he says.

"Are you sure it's not too much?" d'Artagnan murmurs, his voice unsteady. He _wants_ to, oh, she can tell he wants to, but he'd rather make sure Aramis is all right first. She loves him so much.

Aramis' only answer is to hike his leg up high on d'Artagnan's waist and drag his body against d'Artagnan's, achingly slowly. "Come on."

That does it. Constance can't blame him, really. D'Artagnan groans and dips his head to kiss Aramis wet and filthy, and reaches between them to line up their bodies. "You're _sure?"_ he asks, breathless, even as his hips rock in tiny increments against Aramis'.

Constance laughs as Aramis arches against the hold she has on him and curses under his breath in Spanish. "For the love of God, d'Artagnan, will you just f-- _aaahhh_ , God--"

Aramis' back bends and his mouth falls open as d'Artagnan finally pushes into him. His eyes fall half-shut, and he moves against d'Artagnan in shuddering waves--d'Artagnan, who looks like he's lost in the heat and arch of Aramis' body. They're utterly beautiful together, relearning each other in the moment, and Constance has _missed_ this, missed them, missed how all her boys fit together so well.

Aramis moans, his fingers digging into the muscles of d'Artagnan's shoulders, and d'Artagnan _growls_ in response. Constance sees the white flash of d'Artagnan's teeth against the base of Aramis' neck and feels the answering tremor through Aramis' body, and Aramis stills, his grip easing on d'Artagnan.

"That's it," d'Artagnan breathes against Aramis' neck, never once stopping the motion of his hips. "That's it, just let me--let me--" Words fail him, and he presses his lips against the place where Aramis' pulse jumps in his throat. 

Aramis whines softly, arching into the touch, and Constance can feel the tension draining from his body underneath her hands. 

"Let me," d'Artagnan whispers again, punctuating his words with a sharp thrust of his hips, and Aramis surrenders with a shuddering moan. He relaxes under both of them, just letting d'Artagnan move him, hold him, and Constance realizes instantly what d'Artagnan's done.

He's put Aramis in that place, that sweet and soft, relaxed place, and it's beautiful. Aramis is trusting them completely, all the lines smooth on his face, and when d'Artagnan pushes gently at one of his legs, Aramis lets him move it and hold it there, and then--

 _"Oh,"_ Aramis gasps, sounding like it's been punched out of him, and his eyes snap open, seeking out d'Artagnan's face with a half-wild gaze.

"Yes," d'Artagnan says, holding tightly to Aramis' hip, holding him steady so d'Artagnan can push into him at just the right angle that he's found. "You weren't there when Athos did that to me, were you?"

Aramis shakes his head, staring up at d'Artagnan like he's an angel descending from heaven. He opens his mouth to answer, just when d'Artagnan gives another wrenching shove of his hips, and all that comes out is a half-gasped groan of need.

"Shh," Constance says, smoothing her hands over Aramis' shoulders, face, hair. She wants him to be calm, to just let them give him what he needs. "We've got you, darling."

"I know," Aramis exhales, barely shaping words in the rush of air leaving him. "I know, I know, oh, God, I know."

D'Artagnan keeps a steady rhythm, his eyes locked on Aramis', and Aramis' dark eyes are liquid with shine as he gazes up at him. Constance has never seen either of them so wholly focused on _anything_ before. D'Artagnan stares at Aramis like he's chasing a target, and every single part of Aramis' body is trembling--not with tension, because he's totally lax under d'Artagnan's hold, but just with what d'Artagnan's _doing_ to him. Just like before, with Porthos, it's only the rapid pant of his breath that tells her he's getting close.

"Are you going to come again, my love?" she murmurs, and Aramis' eyes fall shut as he nods. Her stomach jolts with a lurch of desire--he's so _beautiful,_ when he's like this. He's beautiful when he's trusting them, when he's let go of his sometimes-painful need to please them and just accepted that they're here, that they'll take care of him.

D'Artagnan drops his head until his forehead rests against Aramis', and he raggedly breathes Aramis' rough exhales until he can summon the words to ask-- "Come with me?" 

Sometimes, d'Artagnan's voice will betray his years--it'll go softer, almost hesitant, and it always, without fail, stabs straight through Constance to her heart.

This time is no different. That gentle fraction of a break makes her heart skip a beat, and Aramis' back bows off the bed.

He gasps in a dry sob as he comes again, and d'Artagnan's head falls to Aramis' chest as his hips lose their rhythm.

They shiver together, catching their breath, and Constance has never loved them more. She smooths a hand down over Aramis' chest, over his arm where it's come to rest around d'Artagnan's shoulders, and he blinks open dark eyes to smile hazily up at her. She smiles back, moving her hand to cup his cheek, and Aramis sighs blissfully.

"Thank you," he murmurs, closing his eyes, and d'Artagnan presses a soft kiss to his collarbone. "Thank you, thank you."

"We love you," d'Artagnan says against his skin.

Constance nudges gently at Aramis until he shifts and she can stretch out beside the two of them. D'Artagnan moves carefully to Aramis' other side--carefully, making sure that he's still touching Aramis with every part of his body, because Aramis needs contact after something like this and they'll all do anything to respect that. Constance throws an arm over the two of them as she rests her head on Aramis' shoulder, and Aramis sighs, pulling them both close.

Aramis reaches for d'Artagnan's arm and draws it over his side, wrapping himself in d'Artagnan's embrace. D'Artagnan hums in contentment, propping his head up on one arm and tracing his fingers over Aramis' ribs with the other. "You're feeling better, then?" he asks softly, smiling.

"Sore," Aramis murmurs. He's well-fucked and exhausted, and it's making him honest. "Overdid it at the market."

D'Artagnan flashes Constance a concerned look, and she sighs, almost absently pressing another kiss to Aramis' shoulder. "I told you," she says pointedly.

"I know," Aramis sighs, turning his head to nuzzle into her hair. "Jus' going mad in here." He lets out a happy little hum and squeezes d'Artagnan's wrist, pulling him even closer. "But you're home now."

"And I'll be stuck in bed, too," d'Artagnan says with a grin, kissing his cheek. "Keep you company."

"Good," Aramis says forcefully, with the careful emphasis of the half-asleep. "And I'll want to--" He yawns hugely, curling into Constance and dragging d'Artagnan even closer. "Want to check that leg when...when we've slept a bit."

"Whatever you want," d'Artagnan promises gently, brushing Aramis' hair back from his face. 

Aramis nods, his eyelids drooping. "Missed you," he whispers again, turning his head back toward d'Artagnan.

D'Artagnan brushes a feather-light kiss over his lips. "We missed you, too. Go to sleep, Aramis."

Aramis sighs and closes his eyes. His breath evens out almost immediately, and Constance and d'Artagnan watch him sleep for a long time before they dare to move or speak.

"He's had nightmares every day since you left," she whispers, her fingers brushing d'Artagnan's over Aramis' chest.

D'Artagnan's hand slips into hers and holds. "Porthos guessed," he says, his gaze so painfully tender that it makes her ache. "He's been nearly as worried about him as I'm sure you've been for us."

Constance sighs. She wishes they wouldn't distract themselves with her and Aramis, but she knew, deep down, that of course they were. "And Athos?"

D'Artagnan flashes her a wry smile. "Well, you know how Athos is. I think he bottled up every emotion he's felt for six months and spilled them into that letter." She stifles a laugh against Aramis' shoulder, and d'Artagnan's smile warms her all the way through. "And even then, I'd have to describe it as reserved, at best."

She chokes down another laugh, feeling so incredibly light. Aramis stirs between them, and she freezes--then sees his unconscious smile as he settles down again. He loves sleeping in the middle, and their bed feels so empty when there's only two people to fill it. It's such a relief to have d'Artagnan home--such, _such_ a relief. It floods up, now, in the quietness of the moment, and suddenly she can barely stand it.

She managed to keep it at bay while they were seeing to Aramis, but now--now that he's asleep, that it's just them--

"Constance?" D'Artagnan reaches across Aramis to brush her cheek, and his fingers comes away wet.

She catches his hand and presses it back to her cheek, holding it there. D'Artagnan's face gentles in understanding, and he cups her face, tracing his thumb back and forth over her cheek. 

"No tears," Aramis murmurs between them, and she looks up to see his drowsy, dark eyes on her face. "We're happy tonight, my love. No tears."

Constance swallows down a sob--she is happy, so happy she's overwhelmed, and that's why she can't stop crying. "I am happy," she says, her voice thick with tears, and she smiles at her two boys, pressing closer to Aramis and holding d'Artagnan's hand even tighter. "I am."

She remembers how tight her chest was yesterday, how the worry and grief were a constant gnawing hole in her heart--and it's lighter, now, of course it is, but she can't help but think--can't help but remember--

She should have Athos pressing at her back, the soft rasp of his beard a comforting scratch at the base of her neck. And Porthos would be bracketing d'Artagnan, curled along his back like stacked spoons so he could touch Aramis, too--so he could cradle their two injured doves, make himself a bulwark against the rest of the world.

She can't pinpoint the exact moment her relief and joy turn back to grief and worry. 

But d'Artagnan and Aramis do.

Aramis, still half-asleep, pulls her close and murmurs a mix of endearments and drowsy Spanish in her hair, and d'Artagnan, pressed tight against Aramis' other side, strokes his hand down her back, soothing her until her wave of weeping passes.

She falls asleep like that, and wakes hours later, when the sun's low on the horizon and the room is dim with encroaching shadows. D'Artagnan and Aramis lie tangled in each other, with d'Artagnan's face pressed to Aramis' neck and Aramis' arms crossed over the one d'Artagnan has thrown around him. In the peculiar light, Constance can see the lines of exhaustion in d'Artagnan's face etched in sharp relief. Whatever's really happening out there has to be worse than he and Athos' letter let on--it wouldn't show on his face in _sleep_ if it weren't.

She sighs and rolls over, as carefully as she can, so she doesn't disturb them. Athos' letter lies half-folded on the side table, and she takes it up again, holding it at an angle to catch the last of the daylight.

 _This is hardly our first adventure... Porthos sends his love..._ And there, where Aramis had read it-- _With love, Athos._

"He's not sure they're coming home."

Constance starts at the quiet voice behind her, and turns to look. 

Aramis is awake. His dark eyes are fixed on Athos' letter, and his face is somber.

"What do you mean?" she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

Aramis sighs, tipping his head back onto the pillow. His hand moves restlessly on d'Artagnan's arm, and he stares up at the ceiling. "If he were sure," he says softly, "beyond a shadow of a doubt, that they were going to come back, he'd never have sent a letter."

He sounds so weary, so _resigned,_ and Constance wants to argue. She wants to say, yes, maybe the old Athos wouldn't have, but he's changed with them--come more alive, let himself feel more, trust more. 

And all that's true--it _is,_ they both know it, but...

But Aramis is right. Athos, their careful, quiet, dedicated Athos, would never bother with a letter if he was _sure_ he'd be able to tell them himself. It's too much of a risk, too much of a giveaway, putting it in writing--putting it to proof.

Admitting it to himself long enough to commit it to paper.

Athos would only put himself through that kind of torture if he thought he wouldn't have another chance.

"Maybe Porthos made him," Constance whispers, to ease the crushing pain in her chest.

Aramis closes his eyes and chuckles softly, a bittersweet smile curling his lips. "Perhaps he did," he agrees. 

Porthos would write a letter just to send his love. Porthos, who's still shy and awkward about his handwriting, learned so late in life--he would make Athos do it for him. He'd make Athos say the things Athos would never say if it were up to him--make sure that everyone knows how everyone else feels.

Just in case.

"Yes, I'm sure he did," Aramis whispers, like a prayer. He's holding d'Artagnan so, so tightly, and in his sleep, d'Artagnan curls closer to Aramis, murmuring something soft and unintelligible.

Athos and Porthos sent d'Artagnan home to them, Constance realizes suddenly. They still could have found some use for him in the fighting; she's sure they can't afford to lose a man to something so simple as a twisted ankle, if the situation is as dire as they're beginning to think it may be. But Athos and Porthos found an excuse to send him home. They wanted him safe.

From the way Aramis is holding on to d'Artagnan, she thinks he realizes, too.

She presses close to the two of them, needing the warmth, the reassurance of their heartbeats, and Aramis rests his cheek on her hair.

It grows darker and darker, and when there's still just barely light enough to see, d'Artagnan stirs. Constance can tell instantly that he's not sure where he is, after days away on campaign--then he recognizes the body he's pressed against, and relaxes. "Ar'mis," he mumbles, nuzzling his face against Aramis' chest. 

"Yes, love," Aramis says gently, petting his hair. "And Constance, too."

D'Artagnan opens his eyes, and his heavy-lidded, sleepy gaze fixes on Constance across Aramis' body. He smiles at her, drowsy and happy, then rolls over onto his back, his other arm reaching out across the empty bed.

She and Aramis see the exact moment when he comes fully awake--when his arm hits the place Porthos would be, where his or Athos' warmth would have been.

"Right," d'Artagnan says, and there's no hiding the disappointment in his voice. He sighs, rubbing a hand over his face, and curls into Aramis again. "I could sleep for a week."

"I know," Aramis says, smoothing a hand over his back. "Campaigns are quite the beast. I remember my first one, when I was still an apprentice..."

Constance kisses Aramis' shoulder and extricates herself from the bed. She can't help but smile as she wraps her shawl around herself, listening to Aramis' undoubtedly-embellished story. D'Artagnan hangs on his every word, his arm tight around Aramis' chest, and Constance is glad to see Aramis out of his own head again. 

Only she can't stop thinking about Athos and Porthos, as she walks downstairs, as she haphazardly arranges some food on a tray. She wonders where they are, what they're doing--if they're safe, if they're well.

She'd never worried about her husband like this. She's not _used_ to this all-consuming care, this constant hum of anxiety in the back of her mind.

But she didn't love Jacques.

She loves them.

She knew that before, of course, but between her last breath and the steadying one she takes right now, something has shifted and settled in her bones. She loves d'Artagnan, and Aramis, and Porthos, and Athos. She _loves_ them.

Her kitchen is dark, a single candle the only light for her absent-minded gathering of bread and cheese. Outside in the street, she can hear the quiet sounds of her neighbors closing their shops for the night, and Aramis' voice drifts down from upstairs.

It's a very ordinary place for a revelation, and yet.

And yet.

When she goes upstairs, food in hand, d'Artagnan and Aramis welcome her back, folding her back into their warmth and comfort like she'd never left. 

Because she hadn't, she thinks, as she nudges Aramis into a sitting position so she can eat. She may have walked away, but her presence, her love never left this room. They still felt it, she reminds herself, layering cheese on bread and passing it to d'Artagnan on a cloth. She didn't have to _be_ here for them to know.

Porthos and Athos are still here. As long as they love them, they'll still be here.

As they talk, she begins to notice how Aramis' voice is too cheerful, his eyes a little too bright, and she knows he's still thinking about them. It seems more obvious that they're missing, with d'Artagnan here--how could Aramis _not_ be thinking about them? If Constance has only just now really let herself realize how much she loves them, how must Aramis feel, who's been with them so much longer, who's wrapped himself in them so much. 

She hopes just the sense of Porthos and Athos will be enough for him--and when it inevitably isn't, that she and d'Artagnan can love him into submission until they're home.

They have their work cut out for them, to be sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, you can find me on [my tumblr.](http://tehriz.tumblr.com)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the first time since Athos and Porthos left, Constance wakes with the dawn, instead of Aramis' stifled whimpers in the middle of the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back, friends. thank you so, so much to everyone who wrote to tell me how much they loved the story while it was on hiatus, or read my other stuff in the meantime. this is truly the kindest and most supportive of fandoms.

For the first time since Athos and Porthos left, Constance wakes with the dawn, instead of Aramis' stifled whimpers in the middle of the night.

She rolls over to see him out cold on d'Artagnan's shoulder, with d'Artagnan snoring softly between them. They hold tightly to each other, and Constance is so very glad d'Artagnan's home. She loves Aramis. She does. She just needs a break from being his sole tether to sanity.

She slides from bed and dresses as quietly as she can. Aramis and d'Artagnan sleep on, dead to the world, and Constance blows a fond kiss to them both as she slips downstairs.

It is so, so good to be guiltlessly alone, doing her work. She can lose herself in the calm of her routine, things that have been piling up when she tends to Aramis--God, just one morning's uninterrupted work, without worrying about leaving Aramis alone, feels like so much time. She washes the linens that have stacked up. She cleans the dishes from the last three nights. 

It's impossible not to think about her boys while she does. Moving through this home that she's lived in for so long--and yet it feels so different now. Those dishes, those are the ones she brought upstairs so they could eat in bed, no longer remembered as the ones that Jacques made her polish over and over when the magistrate was coming for dinner. That's Aramis' hat and cloak thrown over the chair in the dining room--because he put them there, not because she's expected to pick them up and fold them and hang them neatly.

And in the kitchen cabinet, she knows that the pistol and rapier there are hers, gifts from Porthos and Aramis, Athos and d'Artagnan. Hers, her own, no one else's, given to her by men she loves, men who want her to protect herself.

They're all here, all five of them, in the stones of this house, in the air. They've made the memories, the love, strong enough that it's written over what came before.

She has plenty of time to turn her thoughts over and over in her head, as she lights a few candles so she can see her work properly, as she settles into her favorite chair in the sitting room. Constance actually does enjoy being a seamstress, as much as she also enjoys the clash of steel and crash of powder. Sewing is peaceful, and at the end of it, you've made something good and useful. 

Her thoughts can wander as she sews, and her fingers go about their business as she thinks about last night. About Aramis, mostly, because as much as d'Artagnan's the wounded one, Constance knows without a doubt that Aramis is the most likely still to break. Her own revelations--they feel very commonplace and quiet, in the soft glowing of candle and predawn light. Yes, of course she loves her Musketeers. Of course they will always be together, in spirit, if not in body.

It's far too certain, too practical, a thought to ever enter Aramis' head, she's sure. 

So she spends her morning, as she sews and mends and stitches, thinking about how to love him. How to make him feel safe and sure, to give him what Athos and Porthos do.

Because it's undeniable that something is missing. Something will always be _missing,_ as long as the two of them are gone. Constance knows they can't replace Athos and Porthos, but--what is it that they _do_ , exactly, that she and d'Artagnan can try to learn to do for Aramis?

She thinks, and thinks, and while she does so mends three customers' chemises before the sun's above the rooftops. As she's setting her sewing aside, she hears a drowsy call from upstairs.

They've switched positions when she pokes her head into the bedroom. Aramis rests on his back, with d'Artagnan curled against his chest, lying between his legs. They both smile sleepily when they see her. "Is it still morning?" Aramis yawns.

"Yes, it is," she laughs.

"Then good morning, my love," d'Artagnan sighs happily, reaching out to her. "Where were you?"

"Being the productive member of this family," she mock-scolds him, but their faces peeking hopefully up at her are really just too much for her to resist.

The only thing that stops her from jumping on the bed is knowing it would jar their injuries. As it stands, she restrains herself to a dignified, hopefully-more-seductive-than-absurd crawl. Aramis and d'Artagnan's faces both light up as she half-falls onto the sheets beside them, and then she's swarmed over and tugged into laps and suddenly she's stretched out on top of Aramis, with d'Artagnan pressed along her back, and they're both dusting her skin with kisses.

"We woke without you and we missed you," Aramis murmurs against the curve of her jaw, his voice light and playful like she hasn't heard it in days. "Especially poor d'Artagnan--he hasn't had a drop of female company for a week, hasn't even been able to fall on Athos and Porthos' tender mercies."

"You were the one whining," d'Artagnan laughs, reaching past Constance to flick him on the shoulder. He does press a wet, open-mouthed kiss to the back of her neck, though, and Constance gasps out a breathless, eager sound--before she remembers, and pushes him away.

"I have customers this morning, don't leave a mark--"

"Wear a shawl?" he suggests teasingly, his lips brushing her ear, and Constance groans in full-throated satisfaction when his teeth sink into the lobe.

"No," she gets out, swatting him again, and twists to flash him a smile. "If you need to bite someone, Aramis is right here."

Aramis looks delighted at the prospect, and Constance sighs in pleasure when they both press forward to kiss each other over her shoulder. Such a lovely sight, so close like this--she can see d'Artagnan's eyelashes long and soft on his cheeks, see the way Aramis' beard scratches over d'Artagnan's skin.

She can feel them both hardening against her--d'Artagnan's already hot and insistent against her backside, and she can feel Aramis' cock waking up against her stomach. Normally she wishes they wouldn't sleep naked, it's a little too suspicious if they're surprised--but today, oh, today she doesn't care at all. Quite viscerally, Constance remembers that she didn't have anyone fuck her last night, and her cunt throbs with anticipation.

Aramis breaks off with a sudden groan, and turns to her with glazed eyes. "Your skirts are already wet," he gasps, and leans in to kiss her. 

"Of course they are," she growls against his lips, feeling powerful with the way he'd just looked at her--desperate with just the knowledge of how ready she already was for them--and she fists a hand in Aramis' hair and hauls him close, kissing him deep, feeling him open up to her.

She's expecting Aramis' groan, his needy clutch at her hips, fingers hooking on the bones of her corset. She's not expecting d'Artagnan's--for him to sound just as eager, just as needy.

"What?" she says, half-turning to him, and as Aramis trails sloppy kisses down her jawline, d'Artagnan nuzzles almost tenderly at her temple.

"I have spent," he says, his breath hot on her cheek, "a whole week imagining what you two were getting up to in bed together. I'd like to see it."

_"Christ,"_ Aramis moans against her neck, his fingers slipping clumsily to the laces of her corset, the straps, still half-asleep and drunk with need.

"I want to watch him fuck you," d'Artagnan whispers against the nape of her neck.

Constance can think of only one thing better--and this, maybe, could be just what they're missing. She reaches back to thread her fingers through d'Artagnan's hair, twists until he moans, and grins back at him, feeling like a lioness. "Fuck him with me?" she asks breathlessly, and she feels Aramis' cock jerk against her stomach, even through her skirts.

D'Artagnan grins wickedly at her, and glances over to Aramis. "Are you still sore from yesterday?" he asks, reaching down to trace a hand over Aramis' thigh, all tender and solicitous. 

"Don't care," Aramis says breathlessly, shoving at the straps of Constance's corset and pulling it off, and Constance lifts up onto her knees so they can get her skirts off before they start leaving come on it. "Don't care, want you both."

"We care," Constance says sharply, even as d'Artagnan pulls her chemise off over her head. "If you're not ready to go again so soon, it's fine, really--"

Aramis falls back against the pillows, his face a sweet mixture of anticipation and exasperation, and Constance crawls up to straddle his stomach even as she's berating him. "Constance," Aramis says, pulling her on top of him and letting his legs splay open wide, "I could take _Porthos_ with nothing but my mouth to slick the way after the fucking I got last night--I'm fine, I want this, please."

She sighs, stroking a hand over his face, and Aramis tilts his face into her palm, kisses her fingertips. His eyes are heavy-lidded, his lips already red from kissing, and he blinks up at them with naked pleading on his face.

"If you're sure," she sighs, because she can't refuse him, can she, and Aramis' smile is wide and reverent.

Then he arches, groans out a heartfelt _yes,_ and Constance twists to see d'Artagnan stroking an already-slick finger around Aramis' rim, their pot of salve carelessly open on the bed beside him. D'Artagnan's flushed halfway down his chest, and he grins shamelessly at Constance. "I don't think you need any of this for yourself?" he asks her, and Constance laughs. So eager, her boys.

Oh, who's she kidding, she's too eager, too--she shifts up a little higher then, feels Aramis' cock jerk against her arse, and he reaches for her, sliding his hands down her sides to her thighs, palms already slick against her skin. She wants him, she wants _them,_ wants him while d'Artagnan has him, and it must show on her face, because Aramis' eyes glitter and as if in answer, he slides a hand between her legs.

She groans, her knees trembling at his first touch. His fingers dip in slick and swift, barely any friction at all, and oh, oh God, she knows in her head that they've been fucking at least once a day for a week, but it _feels--_ It could be the first time in a year, she's so wet, she needs him so badly, and she clenches on his fingers as he curls them, presses, finds the spot she loves. Aramis lets out an anguished little sound of need, arching up to her--

Pain twinges in his face and he sinks back down, favoring his side. Constance ducks her head to kiss him soft and swift, kiss the pain away. He moans softly into her mouth--then louder and his hips jerk against her, and Constance knows d'Artagnan's giving him a quick, rough preparation, from the way his fingers twitch inside of her.

"Are you ready?" she asks against Aramis' lips. "Ready for both of us?"

"God, yes," Aramis gasps, his eyes too wide and dark for any kind of playacting, any pretense at all, and that's it. 

Constance has to have him.

It's easy, it's so easy, it's coming home, when she smacks his hand away and shifts over him and puts a hand around his cock, when he gasps her name and she sinks down--fuck, _fuck,_ she opens for him like a lock and key, he's perfect in her, and d'Artagnan's harsh exhale against her back just makes it so much better.

"Just like that," he moans against her shoulder, and he nudges her a little further up, pushing her forward just a little--and then the base of Aramis' cock is rubbing up against her clit, the head of it so unbelievably deep, and both she and Aramis moan long and loud. "God," d'Artagnan gasps. "God, the both of you, you're amazing."

"D'Artagnan," Aramis pants through gritted teeth, his head falling back as his hips shudder up into Constance. 

Constance says what he doesn't have the words to, and she reaches half-wildly back for d'Artagnan's hip. She gets his side, doesn't care, pulls him forward anyway with a growl of "get _on_ with it--"

She knows the exact moment he pushes his cock into Aramis, because she feels Aramis jerk deep inside her, even harder than he'd been--and even if she couldn't feel that, she could see it on his face. His cheeks flush, sweat breaking out at his temples and brow, and his jaw hangs slack as his eyelids fall heavy over fever-bright black eyes.

He groans something long and breathless, surely blasphemy, in Latin, shaking like a leaf, and Constance leans down to hold him--even as it shifts him inside her, even as it makes them both gasp, because he looks like he's about to fly apart.

"Oh, my God," Aramis chokes, his eyes squeezing shut as his hands clench on her waist. "Oh, _God._ "

Constance can't catch her breath--it's worse when d'Artagnan drapes himself over her back, panting raggedly for air, and he's so hot, drenched in sweat already as well, and Aramis is burning up beneath her and Constance feels like she's going to burst into flame.

It's so intense. It's so _much._

This, this is what she's missed, having d'Artagnan and Athos and Porthos gone for so long. The intensity of more than two together--that feeling that she's only ever had with _them,_ in all their combinations, wanting more than just one other and reaching out to take it. Loving them enough to be brave for it.

"Fuck," d'Artagnan grinds out through clenched teeth. "Fuck, _fuck,_ Aramis, you're tight--"

Aramis moans, bucking against them--down against d'Artagnan drives his cock deeper into Constance, and she catches her breath even as Aramis groans again, wordless and longing.

D'Artagnan makes a wounded sound and flattens a hand on Aramis' hip, his arm bracketing Constance as he holds himself against her. He wants to thrust, she knows, she knows what that shiver in his muscles means. "Aramis, are you--is it too--"

"Don't stop," Aramis says, breathless and trembling. "It's--it's incredible, please." His eyes flicker open, and his tongue swipes out over his cracked lips as he stares up at them. "Please don't stop."

Constance reaches up and back for d'Artagnan, squeezes the back of his neck to hold him steady. His sweat-drenched hair sticks to her fingers, and he groans as he presses a kiss between her shoulder blades and rests his forehead there. 

"Relax," Constance breathes, stroking the fingers of her left hand along Aramis' brow, rubbing her thumb over his cheekbone. "Let us in, love."

Aramis swallows deep gulps of air, his body twitching and jerking beneath them, and Constance strokes his face, whispers him through the overwhelming sensation until he stills to just a tremor. D'Artagnan moans again, whispers, "That's it, that's right," and Constance shudders at the tenderness there. She's missed this. She's missed this so much.

"Move, d'Artagnan," she says, her eyes locked on Aramis' face. There's nothing but pleasure in her boys' twin sounds when he does. D'Artagnan's thrust rocks Aramis into her, and Constance sighs out, her body flushing hot again.

They keep Aramis pinned between them as they move, she and d'Artagnan. Constance rocks back and forth--she wants a steady grind today, so she's perfectly content to let d'Artagnan be the one to fuck Aramis as hard as he can--again. He's only too happy to, and his sharp, jolting thrusts keep pressing Aramis' cock against the front of her cunt, the place that he always finds with his fingers, that makes her shiver and cry out around him. She's moaning before long, just swiveling her hips back and forth as d'Artagnan takes Aramis apart, letting him fall to pieces in her.

She loves him. She loves them both so much. She loves d'Artagnan, working together with him like this, and she loves Aramis, how he takes it, how much he _wants._ She loves having them both again. She loves seeing them take each other.

Aramis' mouth hangs open, his eyes squeezed shut as he gasps for breath, and his whole body's drenched in sweat, his muscles jumping under his skin as Constance and d'Artagnan fill him, surround him. A stream of low, steady sounds pushes out from his chest as they move on and in him, and those little _ah, ah, ahs_ take her breath away.

"Aramis," Constance gasps, needing to hear him talk, needing to hear that he's still with them, and Aramis moans at the sound of her voice.

"Tell us," d'Artagnan says, his lips moving on the back of Constance's neck. He doesn't stop the sharp snaps of his hips. "Tell us how it feels."

"Heaven," Aramis gets out, his voice thick, drunk on what they're doing to him. His eyes are hazy, soft, and she knows he's missed this, too. He had both Athos and Porthos for so long, and he's always happier, easier with more than just one. "Oh, please."

"Please what?" Constance murmurs, her cunt aching with him so hard in her, with d'Artagnan hot against her back.

He presses up into her as she rocks on him, his eyes falling shut. "More," falls from his lips like a prayer. 

_Yes,_ Constance thinks, flushed too hot to stand it anymore, and she reaches back and--

And _slaps_ d'Artagnan's hip, like she's spurring a horse, and d'Artagnan barks a choked laugh and does as he's told.

None of them last. It's too much, after so long apart--just as overwhelming as that first time had been, so many months ago-- Constance feels it coming and just lets it happen, lets the slow burn rise up and wash over her, and she spasms on Aramis' cock as d'Artagnan's thrusts rock her against him, over and over, just where she needs it.

Aramis doesn't last any longer than she does, because she clenches on him, shakes, just as d'Artagnan's fucking him harder, faster, and the double sensations are just enough _more_ for Aramis. Aramis throws his head back and cries out to the ceiling, and d'Artagnan fucks him through it--fucks both of them through it, really, every part of Constance is still shaking, and his thrusts keep jolting Aramis' twitching cock up into her, against that wonderful spot--

She makes a high, strangled sound and feels her vision black at the edges, and d'Artagnan swears and comes in Aramis, his hips pumping raggedly before he stills.

Constance doesn't know whether to fall forward or back, swaying on her knees, and d'Artagnan catches her. He eases her down to Aramis' chest, and Constance tucks her head under his chin, breathing in Aramis' smell and feeling his heartbeat in every part of her. D'Artagnan sighs, stroking one hand over her back, the other through Aramis' hair, sounding content like he didn't yesterday.

"You look so good together," he murmurs, rubbing his thumb over the knobs of her spine. "I missed getting to see you together, I love the way you care for each other."

"I love you," Aramis says through a raw-scraped throat, and d'Artagnan draws his hand up to kiss his knuckles. "Both of you."

Constance hums an agreement, stretching lazily on Aramis' chest. Her cunt's still sparking, she's drenched in sweat, and she feels so _good._

"We've mussed you, my love," d'Artagnan half-laughs, stroking her hair, and Constance sighs, smiles. She doesn't care.

\--Or.

No, wait, she does, she has _customers_ coming around midday--

"Oh, hell," she says, pushing herself up. "Oh, I need to bathe, I have customers in an hour--"

"Can't have come running down your leg while you're hemming a skirt?" d'Artagnan asks archly, and gets a slap to the ass for his troubles. Aramis' chuckle has a wistful little edge to it, and Constance files that away for later.

That soft little sound of longing is the only thing that makes her lay back down, and Constance kisses Aramis until he goes boneless again. "I'll be just downstairs," she promises, and he sighs and nods.

"I know," he murmurs, wrapping her close and kissing her again, long and gentle, before he releases her with another sigh. D'Artagnan kisses her cheek and her lips, and takes her place beside Aramis as soon as she rises to collect her clothes.

They settle down, just as they were when she came in, and d'Artagnan blows Constance a kiss as she straightens with her clothes piled haphazardly in her arms. "Come back when you're done?"

"Of course," she says with a smile, , and she watches them kiss before shaking herself and hurrying away downstairs to the washbasin.

She'd drawn enough water when she washed the linens earlier that she can just rinse herself off, quickly. She hastily scrubs the scent of men and sex and come off her body, and dresses again in record speed.

Constance almost has to laugh as she pulls her hair back into its braid. She hasn't done this since Jacques was alive, racing from a tryst back into her "ordinary" life. She remembers when she and d'Artagnan were having their affair--Jacques had only stepped out for a quick stroll to the market, and almost before the door had shut behind him d'Artagnan was hoisting her onto the kitchen table and lifting her skirts. They'd fucked so quick and so hard that Constance's legs nearly gave out on her when she was frantically washing herself off, bare minutes before Jacques came through the door.

At least this, she thinks with a smile as she smoothes her skirts, is less of a life-or-death feeling. Her neighbors can gossip, but they can't _hurt_ the way her husband could. She's a respectable widow now, and all her lodgers are respectable men. At the very least, no one can _prove_ that they're all fucking, and she does good enough work that no one's going to try and call her out until they're _sure_ she's a filthy, filthy slut.

The thought is enough to keep her smiling as her first appointment arrives; the twin girls down the road need matching dresses for Easter Mass, and Constance is enormously at peace as she takes their measurements and chats lightly with their mother. 

Esther and Jeanne help their mother in the bakery, and their little-girl smells mix with the warm smell of bread and flour. Not for the first time, Constance lets herself imagine that she is measuring her own daughters for fine dresses, for Church or for court, if they're called there for their fathers' duties.

She nearly tangles her measuring tape as her daydreams catch up with her thoughts. Constance fumbles her pencil as she writes down Jeanne's hem length, and tries to listen to what Madame is saying to her.

But it's a little unsettling to realize she's been daydreaming about having children with not just d'Artagnan, but Aramis, Athos and Porthos, enough that she's perfectly calm about thinking _fathers_ , unspeakably warmed by the picture in her head of Porthos' daughters, d'Artagnan's son, Aramis with a gaggle of children at his feet...

_Stop_ , she orders herself, as severe as she can be, and she tries to focus on her work, the twisting lines of lace and skirt, instead of the thought of Athos holding their newest babe and smiling up at her.

If she wants it too much, it'll only hurt worse when it doesn't happen. If it doesn't happen. If Porthos and Athos don't--can't--

"Madame," Esther's piping voice cuts in, "why are you crying?"

Her mother's soft hiss of _Esther!_ comes instantly, but it's enough for Constance to realize that she can't make herself focus on the measurements because her eyes are full of tears.

"It's just dusty, Esther," she says with as much of a smile as she can make, lifting her face up so the girls can see her--but oh, no, that makes it worse, their soft brown curls and softer eyes remind her too much of Porthos. She has to duck her head again, her eyes filling with tears, and shakes her head. "I'm sorry."

"Girls," Madame Villette says, and rises from her chair, "perhaps you can go choose your favorite flower from the garden. So Madame Bonacieux can know which ones to embroider for you."

It's such a relief. 

It's been so very long, Constance thinks distantly, as the girls skip off to the garden and Madame Villette steers her into a chair, since she's had any kind of female companionship in her life. Her time at the palace with her Majesty had been so brief, more than a year ago, and done as soon as Richelieu realized Constance would be no spy for him.

"My dear Constance, you seem so very sad," Madame says gently, holding Constance's hand between her own, and Constance hiccups back a sob.

"You know my lodgers, Madame," she manages to say. It's so hard, suddenly, so much harder than it's ever been for her--to have someone notice and care like this, it just strikes her right to the quick.

Madame Villette smiles. "Yes, the Musketeers." She only has to say the word before her face shifts, before it connects in her head, Constance can see. "Are you very worried about them?"

Constance nods, taking Madame's handkerchief when it's offered. "Two of them are home--both injured--but the others, we have no way of knowing." She has to choose her words very carefully. It would be too easy to slip, so she should just keep her mouth shut--but she wants to tell someone, she needs to get this out of her head. 

"They're my family, Madame," she says, her voice wavering as she wipes at her eyes. "And good men, the very best. I'm so afraid." Her voice finally breaks at the last word, halfway through, and Constance presses the handkerchief to her eyes.

She's grieving too soon, she knows, she _knows_ , but she can't stop the tears from coming. She feels like she can't control her emotions anymore--she's drawn so tightly with worry, with so much on her mind, she swings wildly back and forth between happy and grieving, helpless against it.

Madame Villette strokes Constance's hand, murmurs gentle reassurance, and Constance had forgotten how it feels to cry without fear of being seen as weak. She loves her boys, trusts them to know her, but she's always wary of seeming too fragile to them. She knows they know better, but the fear lingers, irrational and lifting its ugly head when she least expects it. 

But Madame is patting her arm like it's perfectly normal for Constance to be crying, expected even--and even now, she's telling Constance just to let it out, that she'll feel better for having done it.

Constance forgets, sometimes, that she can let herself do this. It feels so good.

She's dried her eyes by the time the girls come skipping back in. She and Madame praise them for the violets they've collected, and Constance can enjoy the girls' simple delight without aching too much for what she wants for herself.

All too soon, it seems, the appointment's over, and Constance walks Madame and the girls to the door. She can't quite bear to let Jeanne's darling smile from her sight, has to dig her nails in her palm to stop herself from reaching out to settle Esther's wayward curls. Madame presses her other hand again, and Constance smiles and gratefully accepts her offer of tea, sometime. 

When she closes the door behind them, she leans wistfully on the window, watching the girls run down the road. 

She's only a little surprised by the sound of a foot on the stair.

"My love?"

"Here," she says, and as much as the weight in her heart is, her breast still fills with warmth at the soft sound of that voice.

Aramis joins her at the window, his hand heavy and warm on her shoulder, and Constance reaches up to cover it without taking her eyes from the girls. 

Aramis' soft sound of understanding makes Constance's heart flutter anxiously a moment--then ache anew with a fresh pang as Aramis' arms settle more fully around her, and his own longing sigh rustles her hair.

"Charming girls," Aramis says. "We could hear them in the garden, we had the window open upstairs."

"Oh?"

Aramis hums softly, his fingers stroking over the skin of her neck. "D'Artagnan wanted to come down and play with them."

Constance smiles and turns in his arms. "Did he."

Aramis smiles back, his arms dropping to the small of her back, holding her tighter. "He does love little ones, you know."

Constance rests her head against Aramis' chest. "I know," she says quietly.

D'Artagnan loves little ones, yes. Aramis, too, is the first to coo over a new baby whose mother brings them in for a baptismal dress, and Porthos is always watching over the smallest ones on their street on fine days, making sure they don't run into the path of horses or carts. Athos never seems to know what to do with the children in their neighborhood; he treats the ones who can talk like miniature adults, always very serious and sober, and resolutely avoids anyone younger. She's never seen him hold a baby in all the years she's known him.

"Do you think--" she starts to ask, then stops. No. She can't ask Aramis that. But he nudges her gently with his chin, makes a little inquiring noise, and Constance bites her lip. Well, out with it. "Does Athos like children?"

She feels Aramis' tiny shiver and regrets asking immediately--but then he chuckles softly. "Babies make him nervous," Aramis says, his voice thick with affection. "He thinks he's going to break them. But I've never met anyone so secretly paternal."

Constance swallows, her own throat thick. Yes, she's seen Athos with the youngest recruits, with the stable boys at the garrison. He's always so patient, he loves to teach. 

Aramis, of course, knows just where her thoughts are going, and his arms pull her even closer. "I think he'd be a wonderful father," he says, his voice so small and full of longing that it breaks her heart.

Constance presses her cheek to his heart. "I know you all would be," she whispers.

Aramis' shaky exhale stirs her hair against her face. His arms tighten almost convulsively, his heartbeat thudding loud against her ear for a moment. "All of us," he breathes, and she feels him press his face to her curls, feels the hot drip of a tear.

She can't believe how they haven't talked about it before. Thought about it before. Of course, of course they only think of it now, now that two of them might be gone.

All of their children would be so beautiful. All of them. 

Aramis straightens and takes a deep breath, shaky like he's trying not to cry, and Constance kisses his chest before she lifts her head, smiles tremulously up at him.

Aramis' smile is a wan, but real, and Constance stretches up onto her toes to kiss him.

Aramis takes her face in his hands and kisses her back, harder than she was expecting. It's fierce, a promise, and it makes her eyes sting. 

The sound of hooves in the street jolts them apart, and Aramis steps hastily back from her. "More customers?"

Constance doesn't know. She just wants to keep kissing him--no, _no,_ it's Madame Cormier, Constance has a dress half-made for her and has to fit it. "I--yes, yes, I'm sorry," she babbles, smoothing hastily over her skirt and hair, feeling more flushed and off-balance than if she'd been caught with her dress around her waist.

"I love you," Aramis says, with a swift press of lips to her forehead, and disappears back into the kitchen just as Madame's knock comes on the door.

Constance curses under her breath and takes a moment to steady herself. Then she drags a smile onto her face and opens the door. 

Madame Cormier is far from the _most_ self-obsessed woman in their neighborhood, but she's certainly a contender for the title. She's a very important person to have as a friend--she's brought Constance a deal of business, wearing dresses of Constance's design around their quarter of the city--but an appointment with Madame always means a great deal of Constance biting her lip as Madame goes on and on about whatever she's decided to fixate on that day.

Today, of course, it is the Musketeers' campaign.

Madame Cormier hosts a morning salon, and she has heard every piece of gossip--none of it good, all of it agony, and Constance is so grateful she is behind Madame, fitting the bodice, because her eyes are full of tears.

"Of course, my darling Madame Bonacieux," Madame goes on, "would you believe I heard from three different people that they've seen brigands as close as the farms outside the city? The king's own _riding_ grounds, out along the river--not a single blue cloak in sight, and Monsieur de la Cour, his brother's family has come in from the countryside in flight, they say they have not seen a single Musketeer in weeks. Poor little Philippe, he says he saw a group shot down, the boy hasn't been able to sleep in days--"

"If every person who says they saw a Musketeer shot were telling the truth, Madame," Constance can't stop herself from saying, "the countryside from here to Marseilles would be paved with blue cloaks."

"And I've heard just that, Madame," she shoots right back, and then she's off again, and Constance can't stand it.

She closes her ears, pins and tucks and does her very best to shut out Madame's rambling. What does _she_ know? It's all rumor and unfounded gossip, Constance is a grown woman and knows better than to listen to it.

"And the butcher was just telling me in the market today, horse meat's been coming in from the countryside from all the poor beasts--"

No, no, she's not listening to this. It's not true. None of it can be true. They'd be fending off rebels in their own homes, if it were all true.

"--and I had to pay twice as much for my bread this morning, they've burnt all the farms and there's going to be no grain for weeks--"

There could be delays on the road, yes, but surely the entire countryside hasn't burned, _surely._

They'd see the smoke. Paris would be flooded with rebels. The Red Guard would have been called away, and Constance still sees them patrolling the streets. 

It's all nonsense. It's rumor. It's fear and overactive imaginations and _nonsense._

"The chandler, you know him, he says that the last group of Musketeers riding in had mere boys in command, all the officers are dead--"

"Then why don't you leave Paris, Madame?" Constance breaks in finally, whipped beyond her endurance. It _aches,_ to have this woman, out of touch and oblivious to Constance's worry and pain, just stand here in her own house and rattle off all the different ways the loves of her life could have died horribly. "If you're so very fearful, surely the north of the country would be safer."

Madame sighs tragically. "But our homes, Madame Bonacieux. We shall lose everything. Aren't you afraid at all?"

Constance has to drop her hands so she doesn't put a pin in the wrong place. She's shaking. "Of course I am," she says, her voice unnaturally flat, calm.

Of course she is. Has she really met the one woman on the block who doesn't know Constance's ties to the Musketeers? 

"Have _you_ heard anything, Constance?" Madame says then, keenly, like she's only just thought. "I know they all say you know so much about the Musketeers, but--of course it's just nasty gossip, I'm sure."

Constance ruthlessly suppresses her bitter peal of laughter. "Two of my lodgers are home and injured. Two are away, and their letters, I assure you, are free of fire."

"Oh." Madame sounds disappointed. Constance could scream. "Well, I'm sure they aren't allowed to say, after all--"

And no further response is required of Constance. Madame entertains herself quite thoroughly.

The off-rhythm thumps from upstairs finally draw Constance from her single-minded focus. It's d'Artagnan, she knows right away, trying to move around. Madame is still conjuring lurid scenarios from the gossip she's devoured, and Constance can't bring herself to listen--she cocks an ear for d'Artagnan instead, wondering why he's so unsteady. Why did he need to get up at all? Can't Aramis bring him what he needs? She's almost done with Madame, thank God, she can go up soon.

As Madame pauses to draw breath, Constance hears the door to their bedroom creak open. No, she thinks, surely he's not--

A heavy thump, a soft curse, and Constance nearly drops her pincushion. Why on earth is he coming downstairs, the fool?

_Thump_ \--curse-- _thump_ \--a hand slamming on the wall. 

Madame is still talking, but as Constance's ears strain for her darling, she hears d'Artagnan hiss-- _"Aramis?"_

Madame yelps as Constance stabs her with a pin. "Constance!"

"I'm so sorry, Madame, so sorry, my hand slipped--" Constance babbles apologies wildly, her heart beating a staccato panic in her breast. Aramis, she realizes with a sinking, sick feeling, had not gone back upstairs.

D'Artagnan's lopsided gait thuds down the stairs, and Constance goes into her own element. She strips the half-made dress from Madame's shoulders, and doesn't even know, really, what she's saying-- She pays attention to her own voice for a moment and hears "...should take a week or so to get the fabric, really can't fit more until I see how it's going to move on you, so that's all for today..." and is, for a moment, impressed with her own calm and cool. 

Inwardly, she's cursing bluer than the fishmongers at the docks. She shouldn't have let Madame go on so. She should have excused herself, gone to the kitchen, sent Aramis upstairs. D'Artagnan's probably ruining his leg all over again--oh, God, the little fool, why didn't he just say in _bed?_

She redresses Madame, hustles her out the door, and doesn't even take off her work apron before rushing into the kitchen.

D'Artagnan leans heavily on the table, his face bloodless with strain, and his injured leg trembles underneath him. 

The garden door is open; one of the blue cloaks hung beside the door is gone. Aramis is nowhere in sight.

If he wasn't upstairs--he wasn't in the parlor--he's not _here--_

The kitchen cupboard, Constance sees immediately, is open. Her pistol and sword are gone.

"I'm going to kill him," she says.

"I know." D'Artagnan looks miserably at her. He's in so much pain, she can see, just standing, and she opens her mouth to say--

"Don't," d'Artagnan says instantly, his brown eyes huge. "Don't tell me I have to stay."

He can't _walk,_ he'll only slow her down, and she has to _hurry._ They don't know if Aramis has gone to the garrison, or if he's just started straight the road to the gate--

"You'll hurt yourself worse," Constance says, deliberately harsh, taking her authority of the healer and caretaker and wielding it like her sword. D'Artagnan takes his turn to open his mouth, argument on his lips--

Constance pulls the most shameful trump card in her deck. "Do you remember what Athos and Porthos said?"

D'Artagnan's face crumples. His leg does, too, and he collapses into the chair at the table. 

Constance hurries out the back door before he can reply. Her eyes sting, her face burning and her throat hot, but she pushes all her guilt away. She might have hurt his heart worse than he'd hurt his leg coming with her, but that's a chance she has to take right now. 

She has to find Aramis before he does something inexpressibly _stupid,_ even by Musketeer standards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, I promise it won't be another eight months between updates. <3 as always, [if you need me.](http://tehriz.tumblr.com)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He always does this, Constance thinks in sick exasperation as she runs. He always lets himself get carried away--he doesn't think, he never thinks--except when he's thinking too much. Like now, of course, like now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to our loves once again. Thank you all so much for the kind messages, they've kept me going on this one through a really awful block. I think I may have cracked it at last, though, so hopefully we can keep it up!

Constance has no idea where to start.

It's midday, the streets are packed, and Aramis has years of training in moving quickly, not being seen. He can't be thinking--his full arms had to still be upstairs, she doesn't think he even took his own cloak. What is he _doing?_

None of the neighbors, when she asks, saw him go. They were all busy, caught in the midday bustle, and Constance has to wonder, with a sinking feeling, if Aramis was planning this, waiting for the right moment not to be noticed--or if his instincts just took over, letting him disappear into the role of the grand hero yet again. 

Constance doesn't have a better idea, so she hikes up her skirts and sets off at a run for the closest road out of the city. It's not far--surely, if Aramis had just been seized by a sudden, desperate urge to _do_ something, he'd have gone that way. 

He always does this, she thinks in sick exasperation as she runs. He always lets himself get carried away--he doesn't think, he never thinks--except when he's thinking too much. Like now, of course, like now. He just won't stop imagining the worst--and she can't blame him, she has to admit, as she races down the thoroughfare, dodging horses and carriers. All the news has been so awful--and so many of their neighbors so utterly callous--

How can so many people claim to know them and yet have no idea at all how much they mean to each other? It's not just idle gossip, these are real men with real lives, real people who love them. If Aramis has gone too--

He's still not fit to fight. He'll break his still-healing arm, crack his ribs properly and stab his own lung with them. He won't make it all the way to the rest of the regiment in the first place, he's still too weak to ride hard for a day--he won't be able to defend himself properly if he gets caught on the way, or he'll get too caught up in helping people he finds and get himself killed for what little he has. 

She can't stop thinking about all the ways Aramis could be getting himself hurt right now, and it makes her sick with terror. She's already so sure she might never see Porthos and Athos again, and that's enough to weigh her heart down to lead, to smother all the color from the world. 

She can't imagine never seeing Aramis' smile again, on top of that--to never see that tender look in his eyes, hear the melody of his voice, see his deadly, beautiful focus all on her or their loves. 

She promised Athos and Porthos she would take care of him. She can't fail them, and she can't let d'Artagnan lose his idol, his wicked partner in crime. And for herself, she--

She can't lose that tiny dream she's carrying in her deepest heart, of the father that Aramis could be.

The traffic thins out at the city wall. Constance still hasn't seen Aramis. She has no clue where to go from here. Everything's an awful haze, she's out of breath and her head is pounding--

"Mademoiselle?" One of the guards at the gate is looking solicitously (covetously) at her, and Constance swallows down bile and the ache in her throat and chest.

"Did you let--" She nearly wheezes, has to try again. "Did a Musketeer go through here?" At their blank looks, she adds, "Blue cloak, pistol, sword? He'd have been on foot."

"Begging your pardon, ma'm'selle, but we only just came on duty--"

Constance swears aloud, the worst curse she's learned from Porthos--and bolts past the guards while they're too shocked to say anything. 

And then she's outside the city, in the mass of shelters and stands that have sprung up with the steady weather and the sudden surety of business, to cater to the refugees from the countryside. They're scattered in lean-tos and tents in the ground, kept out of the city by having nowhere to go, but the shopkeepers and opportunists have come to them.

Constance is dizzy with fear. There's no sign of a blue cloak--it's almost as crowded here as it was inside Paris proper, and she weaves her way down the road with a rising tide of despair lapping at her heart. He's going to hurt himself worse. He'll never make it all the way to Porthos and Athos on his own--especially not if the road really is as dangerous as they say--oh, God, good God, where has he gone?

She wanders further out towards the fields and countryside, aimless and lost, because what else can she do? She cannot, will not, just go home and tell d'Artagnan that she's lost Aramis. 

They'd been doing better, she'd thought. She'd thought...she doesn't know what she'd thought. She's so afraid.

She stops at the last straggling ends of stalls and squatters, and Constance looks at the road out of Paris. She loathes it like she never, ever has before. She's never before hated the idea that the road could lead anywhere, go on and on without ending. It had always held possibilities, adventure, freedom before.

Now, it's taunting her, and she despises it.

She turns in a circle, staring out with a hollow weight in her chest she hasn't felt since Bonacieux was alive. The city and fields are completely open before her, but there's no more freedom in it--just an awful cage of worry and loss. She can't leave d'Artagnan. She can't go after the missing parts of her heart. She has nowhere to go, and the countryside spins in a mocking orbit around her as she looks desperately around.

She stops.

A strip of forest stretches out down the countryside, maybe half a mile away. Between here and the edge of the trees, there's a broken-down dog cart abandoned in the field, far from the road.

A lone figure wrapped in a blue cloak sits atop it.

The air swims before Constance's eyes, the world unsteady beneath her feet with her sudden surge of _joy_ and _relief_ and _fury._

Her ankles and calves are caked with mud, the hems of her skirts torn and grass-stained, but she barely notices as she trudges her way across the field. She's too busy savaging him in her head for his recklessness, his idiocy, all the fear and _hurt_ he'd caused them, the way he's destroyed her heart with terror and grief for the past hour--God, he _scared_ her!

She's making a great deal of noise as she stomps across this disgusting fucking field, and as the crash of her approach draws closer, Aramis looks up.

She is so angry at him that she could spit fire. That does not go away when she sees the hollow, dead-eyed look of resignation on his face.

But she doesn't want to shout at him any more.

She comes to a stop beside the broken cart, and Aramis stares miserably out at the trees.

"The horse took fright," Aramis says finally. His voice is just as hollow as his eyes. "A dog ran out in front of it, back there towards the gates. Cart broke its axle on this rock." He gestures down, and Constance sees the jut of stone protruding from the earth. "The farmer and his assistant rode on. They'd sold all their cargo."

He takes a deep breath and rubs at his eyes with one hand. "They said they were very sorry they couldn't take me as far as I'd asked. They were very kind."

Constance takes all of it in, lets her sharp, bright rage burn down into something quieter and sadder. "What," she asks finally, "did you think you were going to do?"

Aramis holds his head in his hand for a long, long moment. Then he drops his head--looks so _resigned._ "I don't know." He looks exhausted. "I suppose I went a little... I couldn't just _sit_ there, listening, and not--" He claws at his hair, his face a rictus of pain. "Not _do_ anything. Not even try."

Constance steps closer, hugging herself against the breeze blowing in over the field. "I know," she says. 

Her pistol lays in his lap, its pearlescent handle and barrel gleaming in the light. Aramis' left hand traces restlessly over the designs laid into the handle--he and d'Artagnan had commissioned it for her, the way Porthos and Athos had commissioned her sword. 

"You didn't take any shot or powder," she says at last, when the silence is too much.

Aramis starts, looking down for where his belt would usually be--then he laughs, bitterly, and buries his face in his hands. "God," he says, his tone eloquent with disgust. "I really have lost my head."

"Yes, you have." Constance sighs and leans against the cart. "That's the only reason I'm not shouting at you, you know."

"I know." He sighs, rubbing at his eyes. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet. I'm taking you home to d'Artagnan, and you terrified him half to death."

Aramis lifts his head at that, his brown eyes mournful. "And you?"

"What do you think?" She's abruptly furious again. "I was scared to _death._ It wasn't just that you'd vanished into thin air--not just that you're injured, not thinking clearly, not armed and totally alone--not even all that, Aramis, after all the time we've spent together, is enough to scare me so much."

He watches her silently, withdrawn into d'Artagnan's cloak. She's trembling with the remembered fear, with how helpless and angry she'd been, and he doesn't try to reach out to her. 

He's afraid of her, afraid of what she's going to say next. 

"I was terrified," Constance says, her heart in her throat, "that I was never going to have the family that we should."

Aramis' eyes fill with tears. He pulls even tighter into himself, his face aching with guilt, and Constance steps closer. She can't help it, she's always pulled to him. "I want that family, now," she says, leaning on the cart and looking up at where he sits. 

He seems so distant, so unreachable, and she hadn't meant to say this, because it just didn't seem fair, but. But he has to _understand_ what he's made her think, what fear he's put into her heart.

"If I've already lost half of it," she goes on, her voice quiet because she can't stand to say it louder, "I'll bear it. But if all you can think of to do is run off and die with them--"

Aramis' head snaps up, and he stares at her, eyes wide and horrified and _guilty._

So that had been the plan, after all.

Constance's own eyes are burning, but she keeps her voice steady. "I can't let that happen," she says. With all her own strength; with all the strength that they've taught her she can wield like a weapon and not just keep inside. "I need you to understand that that--that can't happen, not anymore. If you wanted to die together, the three of you alone, you should never have let me and d'Artagnan into this."

And that--that hits home.

Aramis shakes his head--slowly at first, then fiercely, furiously, and he reaches out to grip the side of the cart with an unsteady hand. It's like he's gripped in a wind, he's swaying and shaking his head, and she knows, she's sure now, that he understands. "I don't want that," he says, his voice throaty and ragged, and Constance can breathe again. "Constance, I'm sorry, I don't want to leave, I won't."

"I know you won't," she says, softly, her anger seeping out into the wind as it pulls at her hair. "I just needed to be sure you knew that, too."

Aramis nods, and he doesn't look so hollow, anymore--he's pulling himself up, he's remembering what else there is. And he--he laughs. Just a half-sound, broken and sad. "It's only that...I don't know what my life is without them, anymore."

Constance covers his hand with hers, and he grabs onto her like she's a lifeline, tight enough to bruise. She puts her other hand on top of his, holds him tight and close, and he looks into her eyes again. She smiles sadly, bitterly at him. "Me, neither."

He smiles weakly at her, and she knows he still loves them, she knows it'll be all right. She holds his hands, squeezes them tightly. "We're going to have to figure it out. All three of us together." 

Aramis nods, his eyes heavy for a moment. He's looking at her, but Constance has a feeling he isn't seeing her. 

And then he lifts his head, looks out at the field and trees around them, and there's something in his profile that makes her chest ache--something lonely and afraid, just for a second, before his resolve settles. "No more running," Aramis says softly, the wind taking his words and carrying them away. 

Then his eyes narrow, and his body goes taut. 

Constance knows his hunter's look, and her heart slams in her chest. "Aramis?" 

He stares into the trees, eyes slits and barely breathing. Then his hand tightens painfully on hers. "Get down behind the cart." 

Constance ducks instantly, all at once far too aware of how exposed they are, how painfully vulnerable and under-armed. "What?" she asks, her voice low and tight. 

Aramis slides very slowly down off his perch, no sudden movements to draw attention, and joins her down behind the cart's broad wooden sides. His eyes are locked on the stand of trees stretching out into the plain. "Do you see the red tunics in the trees?"

Constance looks over, and after a moment's staring-- She draws in her breath in a hiss. Yes. There are armed men in red tunics, gathering in the trees. Not Red Guards--strangers, less organized, the red more of an identifying mark than a uniform.

"D'Artagnan told me the rebels wore red," Aramis says, his voice barely above a whisper. His voice and posture have completely changed, and his fingers slip restlessly on the barrel of her pistol. 

"What are they doing this close to the city?" Constance hisses. She's down in the tall grass, hoping the brownish reeds will hide the color of her own hair. She doesn't want to make the two of them a target.

Aramis watches carefully, his sharper eyes seeing everything. "They're pointing to the tents outside the city," he says slowly. "I think they're going to raid the refugees."

Constance growls in the back of her throat. She can't help it. It's despicable, cowardly, but--smart. If the goal is to provoke distrust in the king and the Musketeers... "They'll say the king can't even protect the outside of Paris," she says. 

Aramis nods. It's terrifying, what's about to happen--she knows, knows in her bones, that she's going to see men die today--but she's almost glad to see Aramis so intent. So focused on something beyond his own misery.

"It looks like a small group's coming," he says softly. There's a look on his face that makes Constance's stomach twist. 

He looks at her, and Constance stares back. 

They can't let them attack those poor, defenseless people. Even hurt, even lost in their own pain as they are--

They cannot let these men hurt those people.

"I'm sorry," Aramis whispers. "I shouldn't have run--shouldn't have made you come out here."

Constance shakes her head. "You shouldn't have. But we're here now."

Aramis nods--slow at first, then faster, more sure, and he smiles at her. Like he's proud.

Constance feels her heart starting to pound, her body tensing and her breath quickening--readying for the fight. "We have one sword and _one shot_ in that pistol."

Aramis checks the pistol and swears under his breath. He looks up wildly--takes in the position of the men in the trees, and Constance looks up and sees the four men moving slowly through the grass towards them.

These bandits still haven't seen them, she realizes. They're not trying to surround the cart, or approach it slowly--they don't know Aramis and Constance are here.

"They haven't seen us," she breathes.

Aramis shakes his head. He checks the pistol again, and leans against the cart, his eyes unfocused in thought. 

Four bandits in this first party. Constance is out of practice, and Aramis is injured--and besides, they have _one sword_ and _one shot between them._

"It's all right," Aramis says, and Constance looks sharply up at him. 

He smiles, cocks his head. "I've handled this before."

She glares at him--and why does _this_ , of all things, feel normal to her? She glances through the slats of the cart--enemies, closer, no time. "Fine. What, then?"

Aramis passes her the sword, hilt-first. "I shoot the closest man and take his sword. We handle the other three. Someone in the tents should hopefully raise the alarm by then."

_"Hopefully?"_

He leans forward and kisses her.

Constance growls low in her throat--he's completely _infuriating_ \--but kisses him back, sharp and sweet, and pulls back with a parting nip to his bottom lip. His eyes glow dark, just for a moment, and Constance says, "If we live through this, I'm going to make you wish you hadn't."

He beams. 

And then he turns, smooth and graceful, and levels his pistol. 

When he fires, Constance surges up and takes the other three by surprise. 

It's almost too easy to disarm them, shocked as they are, and Constance tries to injure them carefully, strike them unconscious or hamstring them--but she knows deep down that she has no qualms about killing to save Aramis' life, or her own. (She wishes she did--wishes this weren't a decision she'd learned how to make--but this is the life she's chosen.) She knocks out one that she can, when she can bash him with the pommel of her sword, but she has to kill one of the others. He's barely d'Artagnan's age, it seems, and the heavy weight of it settles in her chest--will never go away, she's sure.

She wishes she could feel worse about it. She wishes she weren't capable of this. 

But she's fighting for her life, for Aramis' life and d'Artagnan's life, because the three of them are bound so irrevocably now that--

Losing another of their five would be unthinkable. She's furious, she's terrified, and these men might have already robbed them of Athos and Porthos.

Constance can fight to kill all too easily. 

Aramis killed the first man with the single shot from her pistol. Constance kills one and knocks another unconscious, and when she whirls, her sword raised, she sees Aramis ducked back down behind the cart. A breathless second when she's worried he's injured--then she sees that he's busily reloading her pistol with shot and powder from the dead men. The fourth man lies dead with his own dagger in his chest, a few feet away. 

Aramis, too, has been holding back his bloodlust for too long.

"Down here again," he says sharply, and Constance ducks just as a shot goes whistling over her head. She scrambles into the safety of the cart's shadow, and Aramis passes her the reloaded pistol. "Are they coming?"

Constance peers through the slats of the cart. She can see the men at the edge of the forest milling around, yelling to each other--and yes, starting to break forward from the edge of the trees. "Yes."

Aramis looks across the plain, back towards Paris--Constance can hear a clamor, shouting, but she doesn't dare look away from their enemies. "They've noticed us, at least," Aramis says dryly, and takes up one of the other loaded pistols.

"Is anyone coming?"

"Not yet."

They share another look, and Aramis lets his head fall back against the cart, sighing. "Again, then," he says, and moves to turn. "Ready?"

Constance nods, and takes up her own pistol. 

Musketeers defend the innocent. She's as good as a Musketeer, and she will do her duty.

She and Aramis rise and fire in unison--and then they're too busy with swords to worry about pistols again.

They keep their backs to each other as much as they can, and as the outlaws come in a trickle at first, they can manage it. It isn't an organized charge--these are just the ones who were too furious at their comrades' ambush to stay put. Constance isn't complaining. She and Aramis can manage these ones, sloppy in their surprise and anger--

But when the flood comes, and it's headed for the city and not the two of them--she doesn't know how she and Aramis alone can stop them.

"Getting a little hectic," Aramis yells over the clash of steel, as he slaps a sword from its owner's hand and disables him with a sweep across the thighs. "Anything yet?"

Constance is facing the city; she grabs a man's pistol from his stunned hands _(yes, a woman is beating you,_ she thinks savagely) and bludgeons him with it, then glances up. There's a commotion by the gates, but she can't tell if it's the guards trying to get out or refugees trying to get _in_.

"Still on our own," she calls back, and ducks a clumsy overhand swipe at her head. It severs a few locks of hair, and Constance wishes she didn't care about that, either. But she does, and it earns the man a savage club of her pommel to the solar plexus. She's not _dressed_ for this, her hair's not even braided and her corset's too tight. She's barely avoiding getting tangled in her own skirts, keeping her free left hand tight in the fabric to keep her legs free, and she cannot keep this up--

Then there's a yell from the distance, and Constance feels the thunder of horses. She gets under her opponent's guard and cuts him a long slash under the arm, and when he falls, she can look up.

She's never been glad to see a Red Guard before.

And in the lead, pushing his horse faster than the squadron of armed men behind him--

She should have known d'Artagnan wouldn't have stayed home.

"In the trees!" Aramis yells, and half the party of Red Guards gallop past them, storming toward the band of trees where the rest of the outlaws were hiding. Constance doesn't watch; it'll be a rout, ten mounted men against a gang of outlaws, and she focuses on the last two men who swarmed her.

She fells one with another smash of her pommel, and as she turns to the second, d'Artagnan runs him through from horseback. The man falls, and he smiles cheekily at her. "I had it under control," she pants up at him, one hand pressed to her corset, and his smile only widens.

"I know you did." But he doesn't sound patronizing, he looks proud, and Constance gives it to him.

"Leave that one alive!" Aramis roars suddenly--Constance can't see what makes him do it when she turns, but one of the Red Guards, fighting on the ground, yells a short order and forces one outlaw to his knees at blade's edge.

She looks around, and the other guardsmen have drawn the outlaws into a tight circle--d'Artagnan covers the group with two pistols from his saddle, and Aramis dispatches his last opponent with singleminded, terrifying efficiency.

He wipes his sword off on the body, and then Aramis stalks across the ground to the captives. He shoves the Red Guard aside from his kneeling prisoner--and that's when Constance sees the fabric tied around the outlaw's hair.

Her chest seizes, and she hears d'Artagnan suck in his breath on his horse.

The edges of her vision blur. Her own heartbeat is loud in her ears and she can't _breathe_ \-- Constance has to lean on her sword to stay upright. 

No. No, no. 

Aramis rips Porthos' bandana off the man's head. Fury has drained all the blood from his face--fury, or fear--and he holds it in front of the outlaw's face. "Where," he says, his voice deadly, "is the Musketeer you took this from?"

The outlaw seems just barely older than Constance herself--his eyes dart nervously back and forth, his voice failing him.

 _"Where?"_ Aramis snarls, and the man flinches, casts another desperate look around. His comrades are all staring at him, and he straightens, and forces a brave look on his face.

"D-dead," he gets out, and spits at Aramis' feet.

Constance doesn't believe it. She won't. Too hesitant, too much like it's for show--she doesn't believe that Porthos is dead for a second.

Neither, she sees, does Aramis. His eyes are still furious and hard, but there isn't a trace of grief there.

His fingers clench tight as claws around Porthos' bandana--and then his other hand lashes out, hits the man so hard across the face he reels and falls, blood streaming from his mouth.

"That's for lying," Aramis says, and with uncharacteristic viciousness, kicks the man in the face. "And for taking this from my friend."

He turns, away from the outlaws and guards, and Constance sees his hands turn gentle, tender, on the patterned fabric. He looks up--south--and the naked longing on his face echoes in Constance's own chest.

"Disarm them," the captain of the Red Guard says to his men. "We'll take them into the city."

Constance stands and watches silently as the Guards strip the prisoners of their arms. Aramis has his back to them, holding Porthos' bandana gently in his hands, and d'Artagnan walks his horse over beside him. Aramis leans against the horse's neck, still staring across the plain, and d'Artagnan rests his hand on Aramis' shoulder, following his gaze.

Neither of them see Constance move forward and take a dagger from the pile of weapons. The Red Guard gives her a curious look, and she jerks her head toward Aramis. "It's his," she says quietly, "they took it," and the man shrugs and goes back to his work. They're all already perplexed by her being there; any more odd behavior certainly won't be notable.

She steps back to her place, hiding it in the volume of her sleeve until she can slip it between under her clothes, and tries not to let her heart beat out of her chest. It's not Aramis'. 

It's Athos' _main-gauche._

She knew it instantly, could trace the shape of it in her sleep. She can close her eyes and picture it riding at the small of Athos' back, knows it in his hand and in his belt and the way it sings to a whetstone. Hidden under her shirt, pressed close by her corset with the handle hidden by her skirt, she can feel the steel against her skin--cold at the core, warming on the edges. So much the opposite of its master. 

Something in her knows that she can't let Aramis or d'Artagnan see it. Having both Porthos' bandana and Athos' dagger in the hands of these bandits--it's too much for one day. No matter how sure she is that Porthos is fine, that the bandana was merely a trophy snatched in a fight that this grimy-faced outlaw surely lost--

Athos' dagger, too?

She's afraid. She wants to ask because she has to _know_ , wants to grab each of these outlaws by their filthy beards and shake them, scream _what did you do to him, where is he_ \--but she remembers the fragile, dead look on Aramis' face before the fight. She can't push him farther, give him more proof that hope is useless. And d'Artagnan? She doesn't want to think about what losing Athos would do to d'Artagnan.

Constance bites her lip, blinks her eyes until her tears dry, and doesn't say a word.

They go back to the city with the Red Guards, Aramis riding behind d'Artagnan and Constance on one of the guardsmen's horses. D'Artagnan must have fed them a story to explain why she'd be there, because while they give her curious looks, no one says a thing. They're excessively courteous to her, in fact.

"I told them," d'Artagnan says, when they're finally home and indoors, "that you grew up near La Rochelle and learned to defend yourself at the siege."

Constance snorts. "No wonder they were staring at me, you told a group of church soldiers that I'm a Protestant rebel."

"I said no such thing," d'Artagnan protested mildly, leaning on her as they collectively limp to the kitchen. "On the contrary, I might have...heavily implied you were a spy. But I let them draw their own conclusions."

Aramis lets out a weak laugh. He's still, Constance sees as they sit down around the table, cradling Porthos' bandana. Athos' dagger is warm where it rests unseen under her clothes, and Constance simultaneously wants to hide it away--and have it touching her forever.

"What do you think?" d'Artagnan asks, and his eyes are on Porthos' bandana.

Aramis exhales heavily, turning the fabric over and over in his fingers. "That outlaw was lying," he says. "I'm sure of it. He must have just taken this--it could have snagged or gotten caught, and Porthos isn't so vain as to risk his own neck for this."

Constance and d'Artagnan share a smile. Their Porthos does love his fine things, but no--he wouldn't risk life or limb over it. Not in a war, at least. Safe at home, he very well might.

"But then I wonder," Aramis says slowly, and they both look back at him, "how such a large group could have gotten around them to threaten the city."

It's a sobering thought. Constance reaches across the table for d'Artagnan's fingers, and d'Artagnan squeezes her hand. 

"It's rough going there," d'Artagnan says. "We were spread thin, trying to cover too much ground." It's not quite an excuse--more explanation, with just a hint of pleading, of willing it to be true. "I'm sure they're fine."

Constance bites her lip, feeling Athos' steel press to her, and nods. "I'm sure." 

She puts all the confidence she can in it, and both Aramis and d'Artagnan smile at her.

"And now that we've settled that," d'Artagnan says--and leans over to punch Aramis in his (uninjured) arm. 

Aramis winces, drawing in on himself, and sighs. "I know."

"Were you even thinking at all?" D'Artagnan's voice is deceptively light--storms brew under his brow, and Constance can see his hurt in the down-twist of his bottom lip.

"No." Aramis reaches over for d'Artagnan's hand, even as a flash of pain crosses his brow at the motion. "D'Artagnan, I'm sorry."

D'Artagnan takes Aramis' hand in his free one, holds it tightly even as his faint smile doesn't reach his eyes. The hurt is still there--the same hurt that Constance felt, thinking that she and d'Artagnan could never be enough for Aramis, that he'd always go chasing after Athos and Porthos.

"I'm here for good," Aramis says, and d'Artagnan's eyes light, just a little. "I don't know how to do this without them, but--I won't leave you. I'm so sorry I even made you think that I would."

D'Artagnan ducks his head and smiles, almost bashful, and he looks so very young like that. "I love you," he says softly. "All of you."

Constance knows, even through the sudden blurring of her own vision, that Aramis' eyes have gone wet.

It's so very simple, for d'Artagnan. 

"I don't want to lose any more of you," d'Artagnan says, and his eyes flick back up to Constance. "That's why I had to come after you. I couldn't--I _can't_ just sit and stay while you might be in danger. You know I can't do that."

"I'm so sorry." And Aramis does look like he means it--he always _means_ it, but the question of possible repeat performances still stands. "I shouldn't have--" He sighs, holds on to d'Artagnan with both hands, and shakes his head. "I can't believe I put you both in danger like that. You shouldn't have come after me."

"Don't talk nonsense." Constance blows out her breath and rubs at her temples with the hand not holding d'Artagnan's. She's sore and aching all over from fighting, but this hurts worse. 

D'Artagnan's grip tightens in hers, and he shakes his head in disbelief. "How could you think," he says, his dark eyes on Aramis, "that we'd let you go?"

Aramis' eyes are wet, and he stares up at the ceiling. He shakes his head, lips pressed tight together, and he lets out a helpless little laugh. "I don't think I was thinking at all."

"I _know_ you weren't thinking," Constance says, but it doesn't come out as sharp as it could have. She just sounds tired. Aramis smiles weakly at her, like he can't do anything else, and it's so hard to still be angry with him now, after the fight, after she's seen him so worried and worn down.

"What can we do?" D'Artagnan turns his palm over in Aramis', traces his fingertips over the lines in Aramis' hand. "To keep you here with us."

Aramis closes his eyes and she sees him shudder. Even at this light touch, even at those gentle words.

"It's kind of you to offer," he says, and stares down at d'Artagnan's fingers sliding over his own. "But whatever it is--I'm the one who has to do it."

D'Artagnan nods, taking that in, and closes his fingers around Aramis' again. "How can we help?"

Aramis sighs. It's a long, gentle breath, and it makes her think of how he'd gazed out over the fields--so slow and so longing. Porthos' bandana flutters against his wrist, and Aramis stares at it.

"Don't let me go?" He lets out another one of those sad, helpless chuckles. "Help me fill up all my empty places until I can do it myself? I don't know, I only--" He shakes his head, looking so young and lost. "I think I need to be held up very badly right now."

Constance reaches over and covers their hands with her own.

They hold onto each other, and Constance thinks about the family she'd dreamed about this morning.

It's not gone. It's still here. 

They can still make this.

All at once, she can't bear the press of her corset any more, or the guilty weight of Athos' dagger, and she stands up. "I think we need a bath," she says.

They both seem a little startled at first, but quickly the hedonist in both of them wakes, and they share a longing look. "I can draw the water," Aramis says, and though his side must be aching, Constance can tell he wants to do this (wants to be alone for the moment, maybe).

She nods, and she leans over to kiss d'Artagnan's hair. "I'm just going to go take this off," she says, gesturing to her dress, and he smiles at her and blows her a kiss.

Aramis hauls himself out of his chair, and Constance takes the stairs slowly. She listens to his and d'Artagnan's voices, low and steady, and the scraping of the door, the bucket. She hates feeling like she's lying to them, but the dagger would be too much. She knows.

The bedroom is quiet and dark--heaven--and when Constance stands in the middle of the room, Athos' dagger in her hand, it could be any other day. She could be helping her boys sharpen their weapons, or helping them collect scattered gear to ride out--but no, she's alone up here, and Athos is gone.

Blinking back tears, Constance goes to her bureau. Her boys never go through her clothes; they're very firm about giving her privacy, invading her home as they sometimes joke they are. She opens the drawer of her linens and begins to rummage in the diaphanous fabric for a good place to put the dagger--she knows they won't look in here. She's hidden all manner of things from them in...in here--

Her hand brushes against a long, smooth piece of wood, and Constance' breath catches.

Oh. _Oh_ , she'd forgotten it.

She carefully deposits the dagger in the back of the drawer, pulls her clothes over it, and then just as carefully draws out the object that has caught her attention.

She blushes even as she's holding it in her hand. She still can't quite believe she has this. It's...it's really quite shocking, even to her, even by her own standards now. She doesn't find one man on hands and knees, filled at both ends by two others, even remotely shocking anymore, but this--

Porthos had given it to her, about three weeks ago, with a broad wink and a secretive smile. They'd had the house to themselves on a rare occasion, the others tied up on some errand of Treville's, and Porthos had said, _Remember when we were talking about, eh, surprising the others with something?_

She'd blushed to the roots of her hair then, for all that it's just her cheeks that are pink now. She and Porthos have somehow become the ones who keep all the others in hand--and Athos, too, but as they grow closer, it seems easier for Athos to have days when he just needs to fall.

 _Where did you even,_ she'd said, unable to finish the sentence as she turned it over in her hands. And Porthos had a madam of his acquaintance, naturally, whom he'd told he had a sweetheart who missed him when he was gone, and she'd told him not to worry, she had an _artisan_ she'd be happy to speak to, on his behalf...

And Constance is holding the end result in her hands--a carved, lacquered wooden phallus, with a flared base and decently (she swallows, hard) impressive dimensions. It is, at least, human-sized--she had visions, before she'd unwrapped it at the end of Porthos' story, of something improbable--and not quite as wonderful as Porthos himself, but it's certainly nothing to scoff at. They've never used it--she and Porthos had decided they wanted to wait for something special (laughed against each other's lips, as they kissed hungrily right here in this bedroom), and then...they were gone.

And she hadn't wanted to think about Porthos too deeply after that, so she'd forgotten all about it. Until now.

Like he's reached out a hand, from however far away he is, and said to her, _I think this might keep him sane tonight._

Constance closes her eyes, breathes deeply, and thanks him.

Then she reaches into her drawer and digs out a torn chemise she's been meaning to mend--or repurpose. She has, she estimates now, about five minutes before Aramis and d'Artagnan will start wondering where she's gone. That's more than enough time, as her seamstress mind begins to whirl, and she takes a pair of scissors from her basket and begins to cut, wrap, tie. 

She and Porthos had spent an hour talking about all the things they could do with it (stretched out in bed, touching each other, kissing, laughing; God, what an hour that had been), and she knows what she wants to do this first night--what she thinks Aramis doesn't even know he needs.

They need a little something of Porthos very badly right now, with that bandana so painfully in the hands of the enemy, and Constance thinks now is the time to share his gift.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I legit feel bad posting a chapter without any smut, but I promise I'll more than make up for it next time. 
> 
> as always, [if you need me.](http://tehriz.tumblr.com/)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Care comes in many forms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I keep thinking "eh it hasn't been that long" and then realizing it has in fact been OVER A MONTH since I last updated, augh. Thank you all so, so much for your patience! You're the best readers ever.

The bathtub is downstairs, in a low-beamed wooden room just off the kitchen. It only opens into the kitchen and garden, so it's not far to haul the water, and it shares the fireplace with the kitchen. The room is pleasantly warm already, when she walks in, and Aramis looks up from where he's crouched beside d'Artagnan's chair.

They're both just in their smallclothes, shirts and trousers discarded in a pile (Porthos' bandana already hanging to dry in front of the window, washed of its captor's filth), and they both smile to see her come in wrapped in a blanket. She'd left her mud-and-blood-spattered clothes in a heap in the kitchen; she'll deal with them later. Right now, she desperately wants this bath. It even looks warm; they must have had time to heat one or two buckets while she was upstairs. It looks heavenly.

"We waited for you," Aramis says, smiling up at her. 

She smiles and crosses the room to them, holding her blanket tight around her. "Everything all right?"

"Just checking on this." Aramis turns his attention back to d'Artagnan's leg; the deep, awful bruising in splotches on his calf is grotesque. He's touching it gently, and Constance can see d'Artagnan's pain in the set of his jaw--but of course he won't make a sound. "I wish we had ice, for the swelling, but it's not cold enough yet."

"It's fine," d'Artagnan says (lies), and jerks his chin towards the tub. "I'd much rather have that."

"The hot water should help," Aramis agrees, and presses a kiss to d'Artagnan's knee. "Let's get you settled, first."

The three of them won't fit; at most, they can manage two. But Constance can tell d'Artagnan really only wants to soak his leg, and having him here fulfills the need for closeness they all have right now. So they help d'Artagnan roll his smallclothes up to his thighs, settle him on a stool next to the tub, and Constance gently eases his leg over the side into the water. 

He winces as he settles in, but after a moment, the muscles in his face and back go lax, and he closes his eyes with a sigh. "That already feels better."

Constance kisses his forehead, and he tilts his face up to catch her lips with his. It's a gentle kiss, unhurried, and Constance sighs into it, lets the strain of the morning go.

"Aramis," she murmurs against d'Artagnan's lips, when they break apart for a moment, "why are you still dressed and standing?"

His breathy laugh warms her, too, and she hears his fingers brushing against his own linens. "I was admiring the sight."

"I'm sure," she says, and straightens. She takes off her blanket, well aware of their eyes on her nudity, and folds it neatly, and sets it in d'Artagnan's lap. He catches his breath, squirming slightly at the pressure of the fabric, and smiles up at her. 

"Constance," Aramis says, and-- She's still exasperated with him, but there's longing thick in his voice, and she looks over to see him standing on the other side of the tub, gazing at her body streaked with mud and the blood of strangers. 

He looks guilty, lost.

"Come on," she says, reaches out to him, and helps him step out of the rest of his clothes. He shivers at her hands on him, his eyes curiously wide and his tongue locked in his mouth, and Constance's breast fills with the need to be tender with him. 

"Come on, Aramis," she says again, soft, and he follows when she steps into the tub.

It's not hot, not a proper steaming bath, but it feels so good, warm enough that they aren't chilled. She sinks down to her knees, pulls Aramis until he sits, and then she straddles him, sits in his lap and strokes his hair back from his face. She's facing d'Artagnan, and they share a look over Aramis' shoulder. He's being so quiet.

She rubs her thumbs over his cheekbones, watches his eyes darken and his lashes flutter. "What is it?"

He flinches, almost, a half-twitch away from the conversation--but sighs, then, and his hands settle cautiously at her waist. "I'm sorry."

"I know you are," she says, and she can be patient with him right now, he needs it so badly. "What for this time?"

He smiles slightly, and she remembers, suddenly, that he said those words to her once, too--after she'd slapped him for the second time, so soon into their knowing each other. She smiles back, lets her eyes warm at the memory--it's so strange to think of a time when they didn't know each other, when they weren't _this_ to each other, hadn't even thought of it--and he seems to relax at that.

"Sorry for putting you in so much danger." His voice is heavy, low, but not as self-recriminating as she feared. His hands trace carefully up to her ribs, then back down her sides. "Seeing all the marks, I--I've never seen those on you before. The dirt, the blood." He swallows, his eyes flickering back up to her face. "And never my fault, before."

She kisses his forehead, soft and gentle, and Aramis shudders. He falls into her, then, pressing his face to her chest as his arms come up and tighten around her. 

"I almost lost you," he whispers. The fear in his voice breaks her heart, and d'Artagnan leans forward to rest a hand on his shoulder. Aramis shivers between them, holds her even tighter, and presses his back up into d'Artagnan's touch. 

"I'm here," she murmurs against his skin. "We're both here. We love you."

"So much," d'Artagnan echoes, stroking his skin. "So much, Aramis."

He scared them to death today. He ran away, nearly got himself killed--but he did it out of his own fear, his own desperate love, and Constance knows, as she looks up and locks gazes with d'Artagnan, that they forgive him. He knows that his sin was the running, the disappearing without a word--and she and d'Artagnan have him back, now, and know that he won't run again. There's no point berating him, no point in chastising him for his fear--for the way his heart cries out for Athos and Porthos. They've been his everything for so long. 

She understands. And Aramis understands why she was angry, why he scared her, what she wants from this life they have, now. They don't need to fight about it.

All her anger bled away in the battle. She just wants to take care of him now.

Constance runs her wet fingers through his hair. He tilts his face up to look at her, and she pulls it back farther, using his hair as a grip. His pupils dilate, his cheeks flushing and his lips parting, and she leans down and kisses him on the mouth. 

Aramis goes limp in her hold like he was waiting for it--he moans low in his chest, lets his jaw fall slack and _submits_. Opens his mouth for her, lets her control it--sobs a little when she pulls away, reaching out with need in his hazy eyes.

"Let's clean up," she says. She smooths over his brows with her fingers until he closes his eyes, until some of the tension in his face eases. "We'll clean up, and we'll go to bed."

"Thank you." He mouths at the skin of her palm, turns his face into her hands. He looks so much younger than usual, in the firelight, in her arms. "Thank you, my love."

He washes the dirt from her with steady hands, and Constance dips him under so they can rinse the dust from his thick black curls. He comes up with rivulets of water dripping down the side of his face, and Constance giggles when d'Artagnan leans in to lick them away. Aramis makes another soft huff of desire and turns to kiss him--it's an awkward angle for them both, but they manage, and Constance watches appreciatively. 

"Do you need us?" d'Artagnan murmurs when they part, and he strokes his palm down the line of Aramis' jaw. "Need us to fill you up?"

Aramis' tremble sets the water rippling. "So much," he says, and stares up at d'Artagnan like he's the whole world.

"We'll do that," Constance says, unable to hide her own smile, and if the two of them notice it's a little more devious than usual, neither of them say. 

She's clean. He's clean. Time to go upstairs.

She takes d'Artagnan's shirt to cover herself, and Aramis slips back into his smalls and helps d'Artagnan up. With both her and Aramis helping d'Artagnan walk, it's a much smoother process than with just one. They can half-carry him between them--though Aramis is doing a little more clinging than lifting, his hands skating over d'Artagnan's ribs and back, touching, reassuring. D'Artagnan's breath is coming harder and faster when they finally make it to the bed, and Constance feels fairly sure it's not all from the exertion.

"Come here," d'Artagnan half-growls as he falls back, and Aramis climbs over him instantly. They kiss, and kiss, and kiss, pushing each other's smalls down and stroking over lower backs and thighs. 

Constance, for her part, is delighted to have them distracted. They're lost in each other; neither of them watches her strip off d'Artagnan's shirt, or walk to the sewing basket in the corner. 

She lifts out the linen--well, harness, there's no other word--and steps into it, with her back to the bed. She made it so it could tie around her thighs and waist, with more strips tied to the ones wrapped tightly at the base of the toy. It's all very quickly cut and knotted, but Constance has made her own clothing for years. She knows her own body, the sizes and shapes of it.

She left two straps loose so she could get in, and once she's tied them, it fits snugly. She gives an experimental wiggle of her hips, and it stays put. Constance has to control her own breathing when she looks down and sees this--this foreign part, jutting out from her own body. The wooden base is growing warm against her skin, pressing against the thatch of her reddish curls, and she knows she's getting wet, she can feel it. 

It's obscene, but she loves it. It's not something she wishes she could have all the time, but right now? Knowing that Aramis needs something, and that she can give it to him herself? 

She wraps her hand around it, like she's seen her boys touch themselves, and feels a spark of excitement hot in her belly. She thanks Porthos, again, in her head, and looks over her shoulder at the bed.

Aramis is spread out on top of d'Artagnan, kissing him like it's the last kiss he'll ever have. D'Artagnan has his knees between Aramis', bowing them out and spreading Aramis' legs apart, and Aramis is wriggling with need from being so exposed. He's always the exhibitionist, their Aramis.

D'Artagnan breaks away at last, and as Aramis buries his face in the join of d'Artagnan's neck and shoulder, groaning, d'Artagnan looks over for her.

He sees the strips around her waist, but can't see the phallus from his angle. He tilts his head slightly, his brows knitting, but his lips draw up in a smile. "Constance?"

"I have a present for you," she says. "Well, to be more specific, Porthos did. I'd forgotten it until now, but I think it's time."

Aramis goes still at her voice, and he looks up--his longing and need all over his face, his eyes almost completely defenseless. "Porthos had what?"

Constance nods. She still isn't turning, she doesn't want him to see just yet, for some reason--

But then Aramis' eyes go very wide, and his cheeks flush deep, and he lets out a shaking breath. "Is that--did you make a harness?"

Of course their king of debauchery would know this. Constance nods again, smiling, and Aramis' flush deepens. 

"Oh, God," d'Artagnan says in a low voice, understanding dawning in his eyes. "Constance?"

She smiles at them, and they both shudder. Aramis is panting, staring at her, spread out and open on top of d'Artagnan, and he looks almost sick with need. "Porthos--he--what did Porthos give you?"

"Do you want to see it?" She knows, somehow, that drawing it out will make it better--that she needs him to ask for it.

Aramis _whimpers._ And then he nods, desperately, sinking down against d'Artagnan. "Can--can I?"

Constance nods once more, smiling still, and turns for him.

D'Artagnan's eyes fall shut, and his head thuds back into the pillow as he curses softly. His whole body has gone flushed, and she sees his hips stutter up against Aramis before he can control himself again.

Aramis' mouth drops open. He doesn't say a word--she doesn't think he can--but his eyes go full black in the light coming in the window, and he is suddenly drawn tight as a bowstring against d'Artagnan.

Straining, she sees immediately, to hold himself still.

"Do you want this?" she asks him, and cups the shaft of the wood with one hand. She's seen Porthos do this to him; hold it out, offer it. She feels a little drunk on the power, on the ability to give something like this in a way she never has before.

Aramis has to try to speak twice before he finally whispers, "Yes."

"Do you want d'Artagnan and I to take care of you?"

He nods, his eyes wet and wide. 

She looks over at d'Artagnan's face, and he's clearly squirming beneath Aramis' weight, still holding him open. He looks at Constance like she's everything, like she's so much more than he'd ever dreamed she'd be, and there will never be anything that makes her feel as strong as the way d'Artagnan looks at her.

"You don't mind, do you, sweetheart?" she asks, her voice all honey and light. "If I take over the fucking tonight?"

They both shudder, her two Musketeers reduced to jelly at the sight of her like this, and d'Artagnan's grin is something magical. "I think I can bear taking the night off."

"I love you," Aramis says, awe like a prayer in his voice.

"We love you, too," Constance says, puts her whole heart in her voice, and crosses the room to them.

They both rock upright to touch her and kiss her the moment she's on the bed. Aramis clings desperately to her face, drawing her in and kissing her deep and wet, while d'Artagnan is behind her, pressing his face in her hair and holding tight to her hips. He fingers the straps holding the cock to her, and Constance hums at his touch.

"This is amazing," d'Artagnan whispers in her ear. "I can't believe you put this together, just for him. Us." She sighs, leans back into his touch, and his breath is hot when he adds, "I can't wait to watch you fuck him."

"I want that," Aramis gasps against her mouth. "I want it, I want to feel it."

Constance pushes back his hair, secure within the circle of d'Artagnan's arms, and d'Artagnan rests his head on her shoulder to watch. "You want it?" She licks her lips, tests the unfamiliar words on her tongue, then lets them out: "My cock?"

It rolls through both her boys like thunder, and she feels them quake in its aftermath. D'Artagnan presses fervent kisses to her neck and shoulder, and Aramis' forehead falls against hers, his mouth open in a gasp, straining for air. 

"I'm going to give it to you," Constance tells him, holding his face in her hands, rubbing her nose along his, nuzzling him and breathing him in. "As soon as you tell me how you want it."

D'Artagnan's hands join hers in Aramis' hair, and Aramis moans, rolling his head between both their touches. With two sets of hands grounding him, Aramis finds his voice at last. 

"I don't want to think any more." He presses his face to hers, rubs his head into d'Artagnan's hand, and clings, clings tight to her shoulders. "My mind won't stop turning. I want it to stop, I just want to stop thinking."

His voice cracks with the pleading, and she can see in his face how the morning has worn him thin--hearing everything so awful, running out with nothing but a prayer in his heart, and holding that little bit of Porthos in his hands (blessed to find but so wrong, in the way it came to them). 

Constance kisses his brow, his nose, his lips. 

"I can help you do that," she says. 

He kisses her again, mouth open like he's begging her to use it, and she feels d'Artagnan's arm flex to press Aramis closer. She kisses him hard, dives in with tongue and teeth, and his breathy moan is heaven.

Constance nudges him back, after an achingly long time just kissing, with d'Artagnan holding them both, and Aramis chases her lips with a needy whimper.

"You want orders, then?" she asks him, and that pulls him up short.

He stares, wide-eyed, and then smiles--almost shy, almost _young_ \--and nods once. "I didn't think you'd take to it this fully," he says, looking so soft. _Grateful._ "Please, my love, yes."

D'Artagnan's lips brush her hair aside and rest against her ear. "Idea," he breathes.

She tilts her head toward him, smiling. "Yes?"

"Have him put his mouth on you."

She shivers--once, sharp, and she feels d'Artagnan's lips pull back in a smile. 

Her hands are in Aramis' hair, and she tugs gently. She can watch his pupils dilate more the harder she pulls, and she smiles, too. "Would you want to taste me, Aramis?"

His eyelids flutter, fall heavy, and he pushes up into her hand, begging with his eyes. "Constance." 

She likes this. She _really_ likes it.

Moments later, she's stretched out on the pillows, d'Artagnan at her side and his arm around her, and Aramis is kneeling breathless between her legs, staring down at her with so much longing in his face. "Constance," he says again, the word more air than name, and he's trembling with holding still.

She didn't tell him not to move, but she has a feeling he's taken that on himself. He's not in that sweet, trusting place of his yet, but--he's close. 

She wraps her hand around the base of her wooden cock, strokes it once, and Aramis shudders. His eyes follow the movement of her hand, and his tongue brushes over his parted lips, like he's already anticipating her request. She's enjoying this far too much, it's terrible, really, but she won't stop. Can't stop.

"Use your mouth on me," she tells him, her own voice breathy in her chest. "My cunt. And if you're very good, then you can have my cock."

Aramis closes his eyes. "My love," he murmurs--his voice is thick, overwhelmed, and he smiles again. 

Then he folds forward, spreading her thighs with his hands, and Constance arches up to him with a sigh. 

The first touch of his mouth on her is wet, slow--then she shivers, her thighs tensing around his shoulders, and Aramis loses any of the restraint he had. He dives into her, mouth open and warm and dripping as much as she is, and she can never quite believe how much he loves this, how good it seems to be for him. He moans, his tongue sliding against the lips of her cunt, and Constance's eyes practically roll back in her head. She's still got a hand on the cock, holding it up out of Aramis' way, and she can't believe how she _feels_ right now. Her skin is buzzing with the way she feels so in control, so powerful.

She leans back, resting her cheek on d'Artagnan's shoulder, and watches Aramis' head between her legs with heavy-lidded eyes. He's moaning softly against her with every motion, rocking his head against her. He knows her body so well by now--the little licks she likes for teasing, the broader strokes of his tongue that make the sparks in her cunt condense into fire, where and when to fasten his lips and suckle, long and slow...

"That's it," she sighs, rocking up--she can't help it, oh, she can't help it, he's treating her so beautifully. "That's perfect, Aramis, my darling, oh, perfect..." He lets out a desperate little groan and shifts his grip, and Constance tenses with a gasp when she feels his fingers stroking at the outside of her folds. "Do it," she orders, sliding a hand down to curl in his hair, and Aramis' hands are shaking when he slides two fingers right into her. 

D'Artagnan is holding her--touching her, too, his thumb stroking back and forth over her nipple, and she's already almost painfully sensitive there, the lightest flicker of pressure sending a spark straight to her cunt every time. "You're flushed all over," he murmurs in her ear. "You look amazing."

She grins, feral and unashamed, and he laughs as he kisses her neck, jaw, ear. Constance is stroking the wood of Porthos' gift with one hand, directing Aramis by his hair with the other--and she wonders if Aramis is deliberately rubbing his face along the smooth wood, when he lifts his head to swirl his tongue around her clit.

The way his jaw falls slack when the wood brushes his temple, then--his tongue going lax and sloppy against her clit, and his eyes flickering up to hers with begging writ clear on his face--

Maybe not deliberate at first, but now--it seems so.

"Make me come and you can have it," she says, because if she's going to do this she's not going to do it by halves, and both Aramis and d'Artagnan groan.

"I can't believe this, it's incredible," d'Artagnan gasps, as Aramis ducks his head and goes back to her cunt with a passion. "You've never been like this--"

"No time like now," she pants, her hips hitching up under Aramis' attention. She can barely breathe, he's going at her so fiercely--fingers plunging into her, curled and tilted to hit that spot he'd introduced her to, so long ago, and his lips closing around her clit and sucking, sucking hard--

Constance throws her head back and gasps, and Aramis _whimpers_ , and just like that she's coming, crying out and shaking as her cunt spasms around his fingers. D'Artagnan's taking his turn to moan quietly against her, his hard cock a hot line against her back, and Aramis doesn't stop licking frantically at her, rubbing over and over inside of her, not giving her a chance to untense and come down. Normally it'd be too hard, but--the way he's doing it like he's desperate to please her, the way he presses his cheek against her thigh and gasps when he has to stop for breath--

She's coming again before she's stopped from the first one, drunk on her boys' sweet submission.

She lets herself yell, lets her body twitch and jerk how it likes, and Aramis doesn't stop, d'Artagnan holds her tighter, and she loves this, she loves it, she feels like she could go and go forever--

But she made a promise, didn't she, and she pushes Aramis' head back just a little, enough so she can breathe, can speak. "D'Artagnan, get him ready."

Aramis' relieved breath is almost a sob, and d'Artagnan scrambles out from underneath her with coltish eagerness. He's wonderful, so ready even when he's not the object of attention, and he gives pleasure with unrestrained delight.

She pets Aramis' hair as he moans against her, as d'Artagnan opens him up with his fingers. D'Artagnan's hand is moving slow but sure--it's not teasing, she can tell from the way his arm shifts. He's giving Aramis what he needs, preparing him with firm, long strokes. Constance catches his eye and smiles, nodding in approval, and d'Artagnan winks at her. 

Aramis groans against her thigh, his head resting in her lap, and Constance looks down at him. His eyes are barely open, the whole lower half of his face shiny and slick with her come, and he pants softly against her sex, tracing his nose against the linen of her harness. He's drifting, and she feels so protective of him, suddenly. "Aramis?"

He closes his eyes fully and hums, turning his face into her hand. "Constance." 

"How do you feel?"

Aramis sighs, his eyelids fluttering, and he kisses her thigh beneath his cheek. "Empty. I want you to fuck me."

She smiles, and she and d'Artagnan share a fond look. "I'm going to," she promises, her voice throaty and low, and he shudders, pants out a soft cry when d'Artagnan twists his hand.

He's so ready for this--and Constance is beyond ready. With every second that goes by, she wants this more and more: she wants to have Aramis beneath her, she wants to make him lose himself. She wants this to be perfect for him, wants to give him everything he needs. Just wants _him._

It's been one of the worst days of her life. She wants to pour all her frustration and fear and grief into something better, channel it all into the love and care and desperate tenderness she feels for him. Aramis needs it as much as she does. _Empty,_ he'd said, simple and heavy with meaning, and she can't wait anymore, she _can't._

"D'Artagnan?" she asks, barely keeping the urgency she feels out of her voice. 

"I think so," he says, drawing his hand away and dipping to press a kiss to Aramis' back. "After last night and this morning--"

Aramis groans at the reminder, and Constance has to thread both her hands into his hair to ground herself with him. 

"God," d'Artagnan breathes, and he shakes his head in disbelief. "All right, how--how can I--"

"Switch with me," Constance orders him at once, and they move as quickly as possible--without losing contact with Aramis. Constance pulls him up with her as she sits, and d'Artagnan leans forward and embraces him as he turns. As d'Artagnan settles into the pillows at the head and draws Aramis back down with him, Constance shifts to the foot of the bed--and now. Now.

Now she's staring down at the smooth expanse of Aramis' back, the sweat-streaked trail of his spine and his fucking _gorgeous_ ass, and her cunt gives a throb of _yes please now now now._ She barely holds herself in check as she grabs the salve and slicks up the cock--it's such a sight, sensual and painfully erotic, and her cunt gives another pulse of heat just at the feel of the wood under her hand.

"Now, Aramis?" she asks, echoing her body's need.

He moans against d'Artagnan's chest, scrambling to get himself up on all fours. "Please," he gasps, when he's steady, and he-- _God_ \--he arches for her, fucking _presenting_ himself to her, and she's seen him do this for Porthos or Athos, when he's like this, when he's desperate for it--

No wonder they worry so much about losing control with him. When he asks them for more--she already wants to give _everything_ to him, and he hasn't even begged her yet. 

It would be so easy to hurt him. And she'd never be able to live with herself if she did.

He's given her such an incredible gift with this, and her responsibility settles on her, burning through all her veins and lighting her up.

Constance grits her teeth, breathes-- _breathes_ \--and takes the wooden phallus in hand. "All right," she says, and her voice dips the way Porthos' always does, she can't help it and now she wonders if he can't, either. "Just--relax, Aramis, love, be still."

He trembles, presses his face to d'Artagnan's thigh, and nods.

She takes his hip in her other hand. And then she moves, and the blunt head of the--of _her_ cock--presses against him. Aramis' high, sharp gasp hitches in his chest, and she watches his eyes slide shut as she starts to push into him.

"Oh, my _God,"_ Aramis sobs, clutching at the bedclothes and moaning, _moaning._

Constance's hair falls in her face--sweat drips from her nose onto Aramis' back, her fingertips dig in so hard, too tight--she can't look away from the push of the wood into Aramis' body. It's obscene. 

It's beautiful.

D'Artagnan pants openmouthed, staring at her from the head of the bed, and he's holding Aramis' face, stroking his hair. "Oh, Constance," he says, and he's awestruck, _reverent._

Constance feels her lips pull back from her teeth in a smile--a grin, a _snarl,_ almost feral. This feels incredible. She can't believe she didn't think of it before--didn't _try_ it before.

She gives a tiny snap of her hips--the way Athos does, the way she loves and knows Aramis loves too--jolting the wooden phallus just a shock farther inside of Aramis.

It presses the base of the wood against her mound, and she moans in the same breath that Aramis does.

"Mary, mother of Mercy," he groans. He buries his face in the sheets, he's _shaking,_ and he's going to tear them from the way he's twisting the sheets between his fingers.

"Does it feel good?" she asks through gritted teeth. She never fucked herself with it, but she can imagine how it would feel--how rigid and inflexible, so unlike a human lover.

Aramis gasps, mouth open against d'Artagnan's skin, as she shoves in another inch, and the tremor that courses up his spine is beautiful to watch. "I've never--nothing like it--"

"No," d'Artagnan agrees throatily, his eyes almost greedy on the place where it disappears into Aramis. "I'm sure not."

"Next time," Constance says to him, and his eyes flash up to her. They share a wicked smile, and she pushes in again. Aramis' voice climbs up a note with every second she doesn't stop, until she's seated fully and his breathless high sound of longing fills her every sense.

"Talk to us," d'Artagnan says. He strokes Aramis' sweaty hair back from his face, tilts Aramis' chin up until d'Artagnan can look into his eyes. "Aramis?"

Aramis lets out a wounded sound and stretches up, his spine long and beautiful, craning his neck for d'Artagnan. "I--d'Artagnan--?"

D'Artagnan bends and kisses him, swallows the needy moan Aramis lets out. As d'Artagnan cups his face (like Athos would, holds Aramis just as steady and sure), his fingers clench helplessly in the bedsheets, and Constance can see his arms trembling where he holds himself up on hands and knees. 

Constance rocks her hips against him, deliberate and slow, and Aramis sobs into d'Artagnan's mouth. One of his arms gives out, and he nearly falls--but d'Artagnan catches him, holds him up and tells him he's beautiful, that he's taking it so beautifully, and Constance bites her lip and holds in a moan of her own.

He is. He _is_ taking her so beautifully.

She feels drunk--on the power she has right now, on the way her tiniest movement makes him shake--on how completely new this is, on how much it makes her _feel._

"Aramis," she says, her voice so low it's nearly a growl. "Aramis, is it good?"

"Constance, fuck me," he begs, and the words rush through her, setting her heart pulsing even faster. Even his voice is shaking. 

She doesn't pull out, though--doesn't give him the friction he wants, just grinds in deeper. "That wasn't," she says, "an answer."

Aramis slaps one hand desperately against the bed--he's gone, he's completely lost, and he drops his head to d'Artagnan's thigh, pressing his face to the smooth brown skin there and moaning like he's dying. "So good," he gasps, pushing helplessly back against her. 

There. That's what she wants.

Without a word, she pulls out, keeping her hands on his ass, keeping him spread for her, and Aramis shudders--and cries out when she thrusts back in. _"Constance!"_

His cry--the pressure of the wood, the straps of the linen digging into her skin, the _sight_ of him-- It nearly undoes her. She's barely hanging onto herself, and she knows she's going to fall.

Blindly she reaches out, desperate for grounding, and d'Artagnan's strong fingers twist in hers.

She looks up and finds him, and his eyes burn where he looks at her. He nods once, gazing at her in that way that makes her feel invincible, and she takes a deep breath. 

"I'm here," she says, stroking her other hand over Aramis' flank. "I've got you, I'll give you what you need."

Aramis' groan of relief echoes in her chest, and she gives him another thrust. And another. And another that skids him up the bed, and his mouth hanging slack curls into an open, panting smile--

And then all bets are off. She fucks him like she's seen Athos do--driving, punishing, not giving him any room to push back or demand anything different. She knows the angle that makes him howl, from all the time she's spent fucking him with her hand, and it's barely any work at all to dip her hips and snap them forward until he's screaming against d'Artagnan, down on his elbows and barely able to hold himself up.

She's using Porthos' gift and Athos' rhythm, all that they've taught her about how to care for him, and it feels so good even as it's like her heart is tearing open in her chest.

She loves him so much.

"Constance," d'Artagnan says, hoarsely, and she looks up through her hair at him to see him staring at her, open-mouthed and hazy-eyed, but he's holding on tight, keeping his own arousal barely tamed. So he can watch her. So he can help her keep Aramis safe, be sure this is all right. 

"Let him breathe," d'Artagnan reminds her, and Constance slows her hips, looks down and strokes her hand down Aramis' back. He's dripping with sweat, his screams softened to short, groaned cries now, and he's shaking, rocking back into her to meet her with every motion.

She barely recognizes her own voice when she says his name, and when he answers his is raw from is howling, too. She swallows, tries again, and manages something gentler. "Aramis, are you--?"

"I love you," he groans, his voice cracking and thin, and this is the first thing he says to her, oh, Aramis, oh, love-- "This is perfect, feels perfect, you're--both of you, you--good, it's so good--"

She gives him another jolting rock of her hips, and he goes limp against d'Artagnan, moaning out in absolute pleasure. Constance's thighs ache, she can't keep this up much longer, but she has a feeling she won't have to. 

"Aramis," she says, and he moans again, soft, "can you take just a little more?"

He nods, face slack against d'Artagnan's thigh, his fingers curling and uncurling in the sheets. D'Artagnan's fingers stroke over his cheek, his lips, and Aramis pants for them, his eyelashes heavy on his skin and his gorgeous eyes dark and full of dreams.

He's completely loose, completely easy for her. For them. 

For all of them.

Porthos' hands guide her hips when she moves again; Athos' voice whispers how fast, how hard. D'Artagnan grounds her, keeps her tethered to herself, reminds her to be gentle as she holds the most vulnerable parts of Aramis in her hands. Aramis himself urges her on with his soft, desperate sounds of need and love--

And Constance chases it down for _herself_ , for everything she wants that she refuses to have already lost.

This is only just the start.

Aramis comes crying out, held between them, and Constance's last rocking, grinding thrusts send another trembling climax rippling through her core.

And even then, she can't let him go.

She folds herself forward and holds him to her as her breathing steadies, as his trembling eases, and d'Artagnan watches them both with black eyes liquid with love. 

"I haven't forgot about you," she says, just to watch him flush and grin at her.

Aramis lifts his head at that.

"I want," he gets out, his voice thick and his eyelids hanging heavy, and d'Artagnan shushes him, pressing his fingers to Aramis' lips.

"I think you've had enough for today," d'Artagnan says, and the strain in his voice is barely there. He's still so aroused, but he wants to care for them first. He's the kindest, her boy, he truly is--

And he is gritting his teeth as Aramis closes his lips and sucks around his fingers, because Aramis is _Aramis_ , and even completely fucked-out and spent, he is too fucking much.

"Want to feel you both," Aramis says, pulling off d'Artagnan's fingers with an obscenely wet sound. He tilts his head to look up at d'Artagnan, and Constance can see it, then.

There's a glitter in Aramis' eyes that she hasn't seen in weeks. 

That, in and of itself, would be enough to drop d'Artagnan straight down where he stands. That, combined with everything else they've done today--

Constance laughs breathlessly as she watches d'Artagnan cradle Aramis' head in his hands, as Aramis brings him to a quick and shivering climax. D'Artagnan's gasping for air, staring down at Aramis like he's never seen him before, and Aramis' long, dark eyelashes rest heavy on his cheekbones as he sucks and licks and bobs his head.

He has that faraway look on his face, the one she loved so much their first night together, looking almost exalted as he was rocked between Athos and Porthos. This is--this is the closest he's come to that, she realizes, since they've left. She's still buried in him, her wooden cock in him to the hilt, and Aramis is sighing happily around d'Artagnan, looking like he's a thousand miles away and happier than ever.

When d'Artagnan's whimpering with sensitivity, his fingers trembling on Aramis' cheeks, Aramis slowly draws back. He lets d'Artagnan's cock fall from his lips, and rests his head on d'Artagnan's still-twitching belly, and smiles, and smiles, and smiles.

"I love you," Constance says, because she can't contain how much she does, looking at him floating on it all.

"Thank you." His voice is barely a whisper, hoarse and wrecked, and he shudders, once, an aftershock of his own ecstasy. If her cock were real, she knows he'd be milking it right now, begging her for more even as sated as he is. 

Her Aramis, who's lost so many loves he'll never get enough of being filled, being surrounded, being cared for and wanted and claimed-- They've managed to give him enough to bring that light back into his eyes, to fill up the empty places he'd asked them to help him fill. 

She's proud, elated, terrified that they won't be able to keep it up--but that doesn't matter right now.

She can't bear to leave him empty again, but she needs to hold him, needs to move so she can cradle him properly. She kisses the back of his neck, and he sighs again, shivers a little. "I want to hold you," she says to him. "Can you relax for me, let me pull out?" 

Aramis whines softly, his brow creasing in dismay, and d'Artagnan strokes his face. "We'll both still be here," he murmurs soothingly.

"I'll feel so empty." Aramis buries his face in d'Artagnan's stomach, looking lost, and Constance knows he's not entirely rational right now. She understands. She's had days, long and exhausting and tight-wire like this, where she's wanted to stay filled with her loves forever, just to know they're still alive, that she's still with them--

Oh, of course, she's such a fool--

"Then stay right there," she croons to him, smoothing one hand over his side to his hips, down to where she's still joined with him. "We're lucky, my love, we're so lucky, we can do both."

She fumbles for a moment, groping blind, but then she finds the slipknots around her thighs and it's easy from there. She unties the strips of linen from her legs and waist, lets them fall, and then the wooden phallus is still inside Aramis and she's free to move to take him in her arms. 

Aramis laughs breathlessly as she eases him down off his knees, cradles him down between her and d'Artagnan and wraps him in her arms. "Decadent _and_ practical," he hums as he rests his head on her bosom, as d'Artagnan folds himself along Aramis' back and keeps a hand on their toy, to keep Aramis filled as long as he wants. "You've found your true calling, my darling."

"I'm glad you think so." Constance kisses his hair, warm all the way through. She does feel wonderful. She's so happy to have found this in herself, to be able to bring him to this place and feel him easy in her arms. She's always been a little envious of the others that they can do this thing that he loves--that she's always suspected he _needs_ , really. And now she can. She can do this for him, for any of them who might want it. 

It's not that she felt they thought of her as lacking before--that any of them felt like they needed more from her, or something different, or didn't care for all that she did give them. She's never felt unequal in their eyes or in their love.

But she supposes, she muses as she nuzzles Aramis' hair, feels him breathe steady and slow and _content_ as she and d'Artagnan smile at each other over his head, that she herself has felt lacking. She's her own worst critic, after years of being convinced that she should be, years of being made to doubt herself and call herself stupid. And it took its toll on her, brought its poison even into this beautiful thing. Being stuck at home, being left behind, being just one woman and unable to be everything she felt she needed to be--she felt lesser.

She doesn't feel _less than_ , right now. She feels _more._

"You look happy," d'Artagnan says softly, and she looks up at him. He's watching her, eyes as soft as his voice, and she smiles, lets him see her.

"I feel happy," she replies. He blows her a kiss, too relaxed to try and stretch across right now, and Constance laughs, makes a little kissing-face at him, too. 

Aramis sighs, a contented sound rather than his tense ones from earlier, and settles against her, just to sigh again at the sensation of the phallus still inside him. "Ohh."

"All right?" She's sure he's swollen, a little, and it must be getting uncomfortable, surely-- "Do you need us to take it out?"

"No," Aramis says--sighs, really. "Please not yet." She shares another look with d'Artagnan, amused and fond, and then Aramis asks, with a little hitch in his voice, "When did Porthos give it to you?"

Oh. "Three weeks or so ago," she says, and strokes his hair, holds him a little tighter. "He and I--well, we'd wanted to surprise all three of you, but the time wasn't right then, and I've just forgotten about it with everything else."

"I'm glad you remembered it." Aramis buries his face in her chest. "I miss him so much."

It's the simplicity of it that brings a hitch to her own throat. For all that they've talked around it, talked about how they don't remember how to live without Porthos and Athos, she can't remember the last time Aramis just plain admitted that he _misses_ them.

"I miss him, too," Constance says, watches d'Artagnan's eyes soften and shine, and she kisses Aramis' hair. 

"I'm so worried about him," Aramis whispers, sounding half-asleep. "After we found his bandana today."

Constance nearly says _and Athos_ before she remembers herself. The cold steel of the secret drops into her stomach like ice, and she pulls Aramis closer to warm herself. 

They don't know about Athos' dagger, and they won't know. Not until Athos is home (and maybe not even then).

"I know he's all right," d'Artagnan says. His voice is firm, determined, so full of _belief_ , and Constance can coast on that, can pull d'Artagnan's surety into herself like she always has. "Both of them. They're going to be all right, and they're going to come home."

Aramis turns his head so he can see d'Artagnan, gets a kiss on the cheek for his troubles. He doesn't say anything, but he closes his eyes when d'Artagnan's lips brush his cheek, and the lines that have marked his face these past weeks are gone.

Even if Constance doesn't have much hope left for herself, she's glad Aramis can still feel it.

"Will you sleep tonight?" she asks, stroking her fingers along his collarbone. She still feels the weight of her responsibility to care for him, to keep him safe in her arms, and she needs to know he'll be well before she settles fully.

Aramis nods, his eyes still shut, and he smiles as d'Artagnan holds him closer. "I'd forgotten what it felt like not to be empty," he says, his voice stil hushed and dreamy. 

"You won't feel empty again," she promises. "We're here."

"I know." 

Two words, so simple, and yet they're enough to make her eyes well up. Aramis knows now. He knows, as sure as she can make him, that this isn't the end, if it's just the three of them. They can still have this-- _Constance_ can still have this family, has the means to keep it in her hands.

Her chest aches with fear for their loves, the memory of Athos' beloved knife warming against her skin making it all too real. But there's nothing she can do for them, and everything she can do right here, right now.

She kisses Aramis' brow, twines her hands with d'Artagnan's, and watches the two of them settle in to sleep. Aramis is dozing already, nodding off with exhaustion and the lazy warmth of orgasm, and d'Artagnan gently, slowly eases the wooden phallus from him and sets it aside. They'll clean it later--play with it later, surely, but for the moment all Aramis does is sigh and fall asleep, with d'Artagnan following him shortly after.

Constance watches them sleep, humming to herself until she dozes off, as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, [if you need me.](http://tehriz.tumblr.com)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She knows, just as she knows d'Artagnan has been letting himself heal because Athos wanted it, that Aramis is trying to prove to himself that he'll be all right without Porthos and Athos. That _they'll_ be all right, the three of them, that they can still make this home together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to every single person who commented on this story during its hiatus, or sent me a note asking about it or saying sweet things about it. It kept me going. I'd strongly recommend rereading the last chapter before this one, since the pacing here depends on that one a bit more than I maybe should have done. XD Ah, well.

She closes the door and sends Madame Cormier on her way, and with a sigh Constance takes off her work apron and walks to the back of the house. 

"Thought she'd never leave," d'Artagnan says through a mouthful of apple.

Constance sighs and nods, and Aramis motions to his lap for her. She sits down with no small relief, her feet aching, and Aramis wraps his arms around her waist and rests his forehead against her shoulder. "Are you all right?"

She clasps her arms around his, holding him as well. "I didn't listen as much this time," she says. "She wanted to go on in her little fantasy world and I let her."

"There wasn't much else to do," d'Artagnan agrees, but his face shows the strain of listening to all that for hours, too. Madame Cormier had decided to go on another long ramble about how doomed they all were and how the Musketeers were all dead, and with d'Artagnan and Aramis both sitting in the kitchen, they'd heard it all too. Constance can't see Aramis' face, but by the way he's holding her, she thinks he's in no better shape than d'Artagnan.

Even now, with how long it's been… They've done their best not to talk about the very real possibility that Athos and Porthos are not coming home. It's been days and days since d'Artagnan came home, more than a week with no word. They live with the fear daily; they don't need to speak it into being even more. Constance keeps Athos' dagger deep in her linens, her fingers brushing the hilt every time she pulls out a clean shift or chemise. It's a reminder she makes herself live with--of her responsibility, of the person she can and will be. The person she wants to be.

She's living with her fear. She can do this. 

She's just not sure if both of her boys are feeling the same.

D'Artagnan is quieter than usual. She can't tell if it's worry or pain, even though his leg seems to be getting better as the days progress. He still can't put much weight on it, and he stays scrupulously off his feet as much as possible. Athos can be extremely displeased when their loves re-injure themselves, Constance knows, and she's sure on some level that d'Artagnan is letting himself heal for Athos' sake.

Aramis' arm and side have healed fully, and he's throwing himself into household work with a little more gusto than is strictly usual for him. Not that he doesn't help usually, but during ordinary times, his province is the small garden outside. Right now, it's grown a little neglected, what with Aramis' fervent devotion to the tasks Porthos and Athos usually take. Constance hasn't had this much help with laundry in weeks.

She knows, just as she knows d'Artagnan has been letting himself heal because Athos wanted it, that Aramis is trying to prove to himself that he'll be all right without Porthos and Athos. That _they'll_ be all right, the three of them, that they can still make this home together.

But as much as he's self-sufficient during the day, he's vulnerable and open at night. It's--beautiful. It's truly beautiful. Constance feels a familiar tug low in her belly just at the thought of how Aramis has been opening to them at night. Physically as well as emotionally, she amends with a flush of heat in her cheeks, and her fingers tighten her hold on his arms around her.

She opened him up last night with her fingers. And d'Artagnan's cock. And their smooth, slick wooden toy. They'd had both in him at once--d'Artagnan's cock and hers, for the second time after days and days of filling him up, after giving him as much as they could to soothe the tremble beneath his skin when it was just the three of them in bed. And Aramis had been limp in the sheets, in her arms, when they'd finished, limbs slack and heavy and stretching out for her and d'Artagnan. He'd let them care for him, clean him up and hold him close, and murmured how much he loved them, how grateful he was for them… And Constance is grateful, too, that she's happy as she remembers it, instead of wistful and a little sad like she has been, lately, thinking of their nights together just as three alone.

Grateful, but...afraid.

She doesn't want to be so happy that she doesn't miss Athos and Porthos. She's afraid of what it will mean when she does.

But they haven't given up all hope yet.

At least, Constance knows she hasn't. 

A rapid, pattering knock nearly beats the garden door down, and the three of them look sharply up. Constance and d'Artagnan share a look, and she pushes herself off Aramis' lap. The knock comes again, and Constance waves Aramis back down into his seat.

"Madame Bonacieux?" a warbling voice calls through the window, and Constance jolts upright. 

In two strides she's at the door, throwing it open, and Jacques from the garrison looks up at her, panting and flushed. 

"What is it?" she demands, her heart beating so high in her throat she can barely get the words out.

Jacques' words spill out quick and messy, so fast she almost doesn't understand at first-- "Captain Treville asks won't you please come meet him at the city gate, the Musketeers are riding back and he doesn't want you to miss them--"

Metal crashes behind her and she knows Aramis just dropped the cup he was holding--she whirls to stare at him and d'Artagnan, sees them both staring back, equally flushed and pale with excitement and fear, and she can't hear what else Jacques is saying over the thunder of her own pulse in her ears, over the ragged rush of Aramis' breath.

Riding back.

"Go, go, go and see," d'Artagnan says almost frantically, half-rising from the chair to clutch at Aramis' arm and pull him toward the door. "I can't, I'll slow you down, just go and see if they--"

Aramis moves toward Constance like a sleepwalker, his eyes huge and his gait mechanical, and she reaches out to clutch at him, holding herself up before she falls over. They stare at each other for a few breathless seconds--is this real, is this happening?

Then a faint, distant sound cracks the air outside. 

A trumpet, triumphant, with the dull roar of a crowd beginning. 

Constance and Aramis _run._

She feels like a girl as she races down the street with Aramis--her skirts are flying, her hair streaming out behind her, and she feels like she could pick up and lift off from the earth at any moment with the emotions churning inside of her and buoying her up. Fear, pride, ebullient hope--she's terrified but she can't help but think, _if any of them have survived, it would be our two._

That's so _selfish_ of her to think, she knows, with so many other concerns riding on the Musketeers, but--she can't feel sorry for it. Not today.

She needs to be selfish right now. She needs to protect herself, and her family. France isn't her problem. It can be--it is, it will be, she knows, for the whole of her life as long as she loves these men who serve it--but it has been _weeks_ and all she cares about are the two men who have been missing from her bed for far too long. 

They have to be back. They _have_ to be. 

Just because she _can_ live without them doesn't mean she _wants_ to. Just because she and Aramis and d'Artagnan _can_ be happy as just the three of them doesn't mean that's what they _want._

They're still running when they hit the crowds, when the rest of their neighbors surging up behind them sandwich them into the throng and the press of people--when Aramis grabs her hand and holds on and Constance uses him to pull herself through the chaos. Aramis is praying, out loud, fervently and with all the hope he has, and Constance lets herself be carried along with it.

She knows she won't die if she loses Athos and Porthos, but she doesn't _want_ to lose them. She knows the three of them will survive, will still love each other, but she doesn't _want_ to live in a world with that sadness, that regret and grief, living with them, too.

Aramis puts an arm around her waist and holds her close--lifts her up a bit as she puts her arm around his neck, so her feet are just touching the ground, so she can _see_ the procession of blue cloaks and black horses going down the avenue, Musketeers riding to where Treville sits waiting on his own horse.

And Constance does fly, a little, when she realizes that for once in her life, she will not be forced to settle for anything less than what she _wants._

Because there are Athos and Porthos.

They're here. Whole. Alive. 

Athos rides in a dignified lead, head held high and gaze fixed on Treville ahead, but Porthos beside him is looking around at the crowd, gaze clearly searching. He's looking for them, and Constance's heart swells so big and bright and blazing that she can barely see through her own delighted sunlight.

 _"Deo gratias,"_ Aramis whispers, overwhelmed, beside her, and Constance clutches his arm tightly.

With her other hand, she reaches up, sticks two fingers in her mouth, and whistles.

Porthos snaps to the sound like a hunter, and she shoves up on Aramis' shoulder and waves furiously, because she's bright and happy as a girl again, because she _wants to_ , and Porthos sees her. She can see his smile from here (can hear Aramis' sharp gasp for air), and Porthos claps a hand on Athos' shoulder, says something, and swings down off his horse at Athos' jerky nod.

She loses sight of him for a moment, then, in the hectic mess of celebrating people, and it makes her heart spike in her chest again--Aramis gives a small moan beside her--and Constance thinks they should go someplace more secluded because how on earth are they going to contain themselves when he's _here,_ when he's with them--?

There should be some sort of warning when Porthos appears out of the crowd in front of them. There should be a fanfare, or a moment of silence or stillness, anything to commemorate the fact that this man they love so much is here with them once again--

But it's just Porthos, and he's _here_ , and Constance's entire being lights up with weightless joy.

"Hey," Porthos says, breathless and beaming, and when he reaches out for both of them she and Aramis practically leap into his arms. 

There's nothing else to be done.

He's as sturdy as ever. As warm and as real, and when he laughs in delight Constance's whole body trembles with relief and joy.

"Let's get home, come on," Porthos says, without any other greeting, and she can feel his longing in his voice--feels the way Aramis shudders against them both. He clings to Porthos while Constance draws back, and though they're in the thick of the crowd Porthos reaches up to cup his cheek regardless. 

His voice is soft, private, and Aramis clings even tighter at the sound. "Aramis, home, yeah?"

"Yes," Aramis says, almost choked, and he moves when Constance and Porthos both steer him that way.

"Athos?" she asks Porthos, because she can't help it, because she still feels off-balance and strange without their whole family complete, and Porthos grins at her. 

"Has to officially hand the regiment back to Treville. He'll meet us on the way."

Aramis makes another stifled sound, clinging to Porthos to hold himself up, and she's never seen Aramis this overwhelmed, this out of his body, and Porthos hooks an arm around his waist and helps Constance point him home.

"You're all right, then?" Constance asks when they've gone a few more streets and it's quieter, easier to speak without needing to shout, her eyes raking up and down Porthos' body for injuries or bandages or anything else.

He smiles at her over Aramis' head, smiles and nods, and Constance's heartbeat settles a little more in her chest. "Both of us," he assures her. "Athos is wound tighter than an old clock, mind, but--"

"I resent that," a cool voice comes behind them, and then Athos is in step at Constance's side as if he'd never been away. Her body jolts like she's been shocked, surprise and elation surging through her veins, and in half a moment Athos' arm hooks around her waist and he uses her connection to Aramis and Porthos to steer all four of them into the alley between the blacksmith's and the silversmith's shops. 

The moment they are out of sight of the street, Athos turns and literally throws himself into the three of them. There's no other word for it. He collides with her and Aramis, dragging them into an embrace while another hand hauls Porthos closer, and Porthos laughs aloud and wraps his broad arms around all of them, holding them together.

"God," Athos hisses, short and sharp, and she can feel all of his tension still twisted up tight in the feel of his body against hers. "God, it's been _Hell."_

"Oh, Athos," she says, unsteady on her feet with the way her relief has made her weak, and Athos draws back just enough so he can stare into her face, into her eyes--

He looks over at Aramis for just a moment, a single, speaking moment, and then turns on his heel again and marches down the alley, his arm stretching back and pulling Constance by the hand. "Home," he says, his voice as tight as the rest of him. "Home, now."

She's forgotten the way Athos' single-minded focus makes her heart skip, makes her limbs feel hot and her joints watery, and she's still reeling from how long it's been and how fast all this has happened--

They're practically running through the last few streets to their house, Athos' long strides making her hurry along, and behind her she can feel Aramis and Porthos on their heels. She can still hear Aramis' breathing--she's been listening for it so much, these last few weeks, it's still the first sound her ears strain to hear--and he sounds like he's drowning.

The house appears, looms up faster than she'd been expecting it--everything's happening so _quickly,_ she's so dizzy with joy and relief and sudden spiking tension that she's just stumbling along as Athos pulls open the door and ushers them all inside, Aramis and Porthos first and then Constance herself, beaming and giddy and drunk on happiness as she is.

She has to laugh, just once in pure delight, at the way Porthos and Aramis instantly fall into each other once they're safe inside the living room, the way Aramis launches himself into Porthos' arms and Porthos throws his arms around him--

The front door closes behind her and the bolt slides home.

Constance's back slams up against the door and Athos is flat against her front, his mouth on hers and his body heavy, solid, _here_ against her. She gasps, sobs out a breath and drapes her arms around his neck, and his arms wrap hard and warm around her, and he's here, he's holding her, he's _home._

She kisses him back as hard and as deep as she's been dying to, all this time they've been gone--she kisses him and kisses him and drags him even closer to her, letting out all her pent-up fear and strain out into this kiss. And she thinks Athos knows, because he takes it and gives it back in kind. 

He whispers her name when they part, his breath mixing with hers, and Constance buries her fingers in his hair and presses their foreheads together.

A rough sob breaks the silence in the room, and Constance tilts her head so she can see Porthos and Aramis wrapped in each other. They're holding on so tightly there isn't a single breath of air between them, and Aramis has his face pressed to Porthos' neck, over his pulse point. Porthos has his face buried in Aramis' hair, and Constance can see tear tracks gleam along the line of his jaw. 

"Missed you," Porthos says, so softly she can barely hear.

"Porthos," Aramis whispers like it's the only word he knows.

Constance nudges gently at Athos' shoulder, propelling him towards them, and Athos moves to his two other pieces like iron to a lodestone. He touches their shoulders, gently, and they unfold to include him--to hold him, close and fervent, as he'd just held her.

Her eyes fill with tears to see them together again: to see Porthos get to set his strength aside for a moment and be held up as well; to see Athos set his worries aside and be held with love; to see Aramis' fears dissolve in the warmth of them, here, with him.

It lasts for a few shuddering breaths, and then Athos lifts his head to take Aramis' face in one hand, to draw him close and kiss him tenderly. Aramis half-falls against him, opening to Athos and melting into Porthos' hold. He reaches up to hold Athos with one hand, still clinging to Porthos with the other, and Athos growls and presses closer for a second, kissing him almost savagely--

Then he gentles, visibly reasserting his control, and draws back to stare into Aramis' face. They don't speak as they gaze at each other, but their eyes are full. Then Athos turns to kiss Porthos, a single, slow press of their lips, and he lets his hands fall from them. "D'Artagnan," he says, the single name eloquent, and leaves for the kitchen.

Porthos looks over at Constance when she laughs again, and his smile widens even more. She moves to him then for her own kiss, and when Porthos' strong arms wrap around her, she can release the last of the strain she's been carrying.

He kisses her like she's the only thing in the world, gentle and sure but with the heat that she loves, and Constance lets herself go weak against him. She doesn't have to keep herself so steady right now. Porthos holds her like she's precious, and Constance melts into his arms, sending up infinite prayers of thanks that he's safe and here with her again. 

There's a clatter of dishes from the kitchen, and Porthos lifts his head, frowning. Another thump, the heavy sound of flesh on wood, and they all know _that_ sound.

"He missed him," Porthos says with a grin, and Aramis and Constance laugh, the sound filling the room the way it hasn't for days. 

In the kitchen, d'Artagnan is slumped back on the kitchen table, the empty dishes from breakfast scattered on the floor. Athos stands between d'Artagnan's legs, holding the injured one very tenderly, and using the other to unceremoniously pin d'Artagnan to the table while he kisses him ferociously.

"Really?" Porthos asks, and d'Artagnan moans in response, jerking up against Athos like he can't help himself. "The lad's injured, Athos."

"I'm being very careful," Athos says when he pulls away, running a proprietary hand over d'Artagnan's thigh. 

D'Artagnan, clearly past words, just waves a hand to Porthos, beckoning him close, and Porthos grins as he steps over the scattered dishes to kiss d'Artagnan in welcome.

Aramis reaches out for Athos, drawing him close again. _"I_ didn't get the rough welcome."

Athos leans in, pressing his brow to Aramis' temple, and Constance smiles to see Aramis shiver in delight. "I didn't have to watch _you_ get thrown from your horse and dragged for yards, thinking you'd broken your fool neck."

Constance glares at d'Artagnan, who grins sheepishly at her under Porthos' arm. "I didn't want to make it sound worse than it was."

"It was pretty damn bad," Porthos corrects him, as he hauls their youngest up to a sitting position on the table. "Lemme have a look at you."

"I'm fine, really," d'Artagnan sighs, but submits to Porthos' examination with a smile all the same. Porthos is gentle, stroking his hands over d'Artagnan's chest and thigh, and smiles when there's no flinch of pain when he touches the injured leg. "Looks like you followed orders pretty well, then."

"I stayed off it," d'Artagnan laughs, reaching up to hook Porthos into another kiss. "And I carried all messages I was instructed to."

Constance warms at the memory of the _instructions_ Porthos had sent d'Artagnan back with, and Porthos rolls his shoulders back and grins hot at d'Artagnan. "Good lad."

"Very good," Athos echoes with a smug smile, and he flashes a heated look at Aramis. "Did you enjoy Porthos' message?"

Constance can tell Aramis is getting his equilibrium back, because he grins back instantly and presses himself into Athos' side. "Not as much as I enjoyed _yours,_ dear Athos." Athos freezes, a deer in a hunter's path, and Aramis leans in to nuzzle at his ear. "Such utter poetry, my love. I knew there was a romantic in you somewhere."

Athos, to Constance's utter delight, turns as red as her hair, and Porthos bursts out laughing. She does, too, and Athos looks guiltily at her as well--cagey, suddenly, like a trapped animal.

"I told you," Porthos says, beaming at Athos, "they're gonna keep that forever."

"Yes, you did," Athos says stiffly, and he ducks out of Aramis' hold, making a beeline to the sideboard for the bottle of claret he keeps there. Aramis lets him go with a chuckle, stepping closer to Constance, and she pulls his arm around her with a happy sound.

Athos' embarrassment fades with his first sip of wine, and he looks ruefully at the two of them over the top of his glass. "You never will let me forget it, will you?"

"It was lovely, Athos," Constance says, beaming at him, and he blushes again. 

"Did you put him up to it?" Aramis asks Porthos, and he is _radiating_ happiness, he looks happier than Constance has ever seen him. 

Porthos laughs, grinning at Aramis with his chin resting on d'Artagnan's hair. "Nah, he came up with that his very own self. I did make sure he said some important things, though."

"The only important things," Athos says dryly, and drains his wine. 

Constance leans back against Aramis' chest and closes her eyes. She's so _relieved._ She feels light with it, almost dizzy with it. "We thought you must have been worried, yourselves, if you were going to put incriminating evidence in a letter."

There's a pause, and then Athos' boots on the floor, and Constance opens her eyes just in time to be kissed again, Athos' hands cupping her face and tilting her up to kiss her deep and devouring. She lets out a surprised little sound, her eyes fluttering shut again, and Aramis' arm tightens around her as Athos takes her apart with his kiss.

She can only blink at him when he draws back, and Athos rests his forehead against hers for a moment before drawing breath to speak. "I would gladly," he rasps, "burn at the stake for that letter, if it meant I could comfort you both when you needed it."

And then Constance can't see through her tears, can't breathe for the love choking her, and she throws herself forward into his arms. "Oh, _Athos."_

He holds her tightly, and she folds herself into his embrace--just lets herself be held, lets herself cry. They came back to her. Her body just can't contain it. 

"Oh, I'm fine, I'm just happy," she says weakly as Athos gently steers her into a chair, but she goes just so Porthos can sit down beside her. He reaches up to wipe her eyes, and she'd almost forgotten how his hands can circle her whole face, how gentle he is when he touches her. She reached up to cup his hand and gives him a watery smile, and Porthos beams at her.

Aramis settles down on Porthos' other side, resting his cheek on Porthos' shoulder, and after a moment's negotiation Athos drags a chair up beside Constance, so they can all sit close. D'Artagnan, the cheeky sod, is still sitting on the blessed _table--_ but almost as soon as Athos sits, d'Artagnan pushes himself off the table and turns neatly to sit in Athos' lap. 

"For _God's_ sake," Athos groans as the full weight of a (rangy, yes, but still substantial) grown man drops into his lap, but he hooks his arms around d'Artagnan's waist and pulls him in close anyway.

D'Artagnan twists to beam at him. "You love me." Athos rolls his eyes, but strokes a possessive hand over d'Artagnan's flank all the same.

And then they look around at each other, and it--it hits, then. They're all here, in their kitchen, around their table. They've been giddy on the relief of their reunion, reconnecting with touch and teasing--it hasn't really _happened,_ in Constance's mind, or in the men's, she thinks. It hasn't really felt real, that they're all together again, that this nightmare month is over. 

But this is where they began. This is their place. Safe, sacred. 

It's real, here. 

"We missed you." 

Aramis' eyes are so dark, his voice rough with emotion. Porthos slips his fingers through Aramis' and draws Aramis' hand into his lap, and Aramis hums softly and kisses his neck. "We missed you so much," he whispers, wrapping himself around Porthos. 

"We missed you," Porthos echoes, tightening his grip on Aramis' hands. "Not having you watching our backs--never feels right."

"And not knowing if we were going to make it back." Athos shakes his head, his hand moving restlessly on d'Artagnan's leg. 

D'Artagnan tilts his head back to touch Athos'. "How _did_ you make it back?" he murmurs, and covers Athos' hand with his. "What happened?"

That somehow brings a smile to Athos' face. "We had fresh intelligence," he says, and there's a sparkle in his eyes that's--that's _proud._

D'Artagnan twists to frown at him. "From where?"

Porthos laughs. "Funny story, that," he says, and covers Constance's hand with his free one. "The Red Guard who brought it to us said they got it from some rebels who attacked the city." Constance turns sharply to look at him, and she and Aramis share a wide, startled look. Do they mean--?

"Yes," Athos says, and rests his chin on d'Artagnan's shoulder. "He said two injured Musketeers and a--what was it, Porthos?"

"Madwoman," Porthos supplies with a brilliant grin. 

"Yes, a madwoman. They helped stop them," Athos says, and he looks at Constance with such utter pride that she nearly blushes again. 

But she doesn't. She lifts her chin and smiles a challenge at them. "Well, someone had to look after things here with you lot running amok out there."

"And you did it admirably." Athos' answering smile is brilliant, blazing in a way that he rarely lets himself shine. 

Porthos squeezes her hand, and he radiates love and pride and warmth when she looks at him. "Whichever one it was that you captured told the Cardinal everything about their plans," he tells them. "So he sent us a troop of Guards to look nice for his Majesty--"

"Which we did not need," Athos butts in, eyes narrowing. 

Porthos cuts him a sidelong glance, and Athos quiets himself. Porthos rarely needs help telling a story. "Which we could have done fine without, but we weren't gonna turn down extra help and fresh smarts, especially once they told us who exactly helped them get it."

"You're welcome," d'Artagnan says, cheeky as ever, and Athos swats his thigh. Constance and Aramis, though, share a look, and she knows when she meets Aramis' eyes that he's feeling the guilt of that day all over again. She reaches over and takes his hand, squeezes it hard, and he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

"What did we miss, then?" Porthos' voice is low, gentle, and Constance looks up at him.

She's never known anyone who can read a moment the way Porthos can--never known anyone who can see the motion of a hand, or a simple shift in expression, and understand what a person's leaving unsaid, like Porthos does with all of them. He learned it all the hard way, he's told her--how a person's lowered brow could mean life or death when he was growing up, and so much more--and while she wishes she could take back all the years of pain and loneliness it took for him to become so fluent in the language of glances and touches, she's so incredibly grateful for it in moments like this. 

"It's been hell," she says, because she doesn't have to lie, she doesn't have to sugarcoat it, not for Porthos and not for any of the rest of them. Porthos' brows knit together in sympathy and he squeezes her hand, and Constance takes a steadying breath. "We didn't know _anything,_ and that led to so much more hell than we were ready for."

"How," Athos asks softly, after a moment, "were you outside the gates when they attacked that day?"

It hangs for a moment, because Athos is a tactician and somehow Constance thinks she should have known he would have realized they had _no reason_ to be outside and to have saved the day--

And for a moment she wonders if she should lie, to spare Aramis their frustration and exasperation--

"I tried to run away," Aramis says, blunter than she's ever heard. 

She looks sharply at him, and Porthos and Athos and d'Artagnan do too, and Aramis smiles ruefully. "I'd hit the end of my tether," he says, his fingers tracing a pattern on the back of Porthos' hand. "I was afraid, and I panicked, and I tried to run away. I wanted to die with you if you were dead, and if you weren't, I wanted to throw myself at your feet and beg you to never leave me again."

"Aramis." Porthos doesn't sound disappointed, just--heavy, and sad, and Aramis presses closer to him.

"I lost faith," he says, softer this time, and she's seen Aramis penitent before, but--this feels different. It's more personal, more-- _important,_ it seems, than church devotions. "I needed them to bring me back."

D'Artagnan's voice is soft, and gentle, and Constance loves him so much. "You needed," he says quietly, "Constance."

Aramis smiles, a tiny little curve of his lips that speaks of private joy, and he nods, almost shyly. "Constancy, and Constance."

She frees one hand and reaches for him, and he weaves his fingers through hers, squeezes gently. "I'll always come after you," she promises, her heart in her throat. "Always, Aramis."

He smiles at her, helpless and burning, and she tightens her hand, vows with all her being that he will know this as deeply and as truly as he knows anything in this world. 

"You're magnificent, you know," Porthos says, so warm, and it takes Constance a moment to realize he's talking to her. And she _blushes,_ of all things, and Porthos laughs and looks to Athos for support. "Magnificent?"

"Utterly," Athos agrees, and he and d'Artagnan are holding hands now, Athos' arms still clasped around their youngest to hold him close. They're both gazing steadily at Constance, and--she doesn't think she remembers how to be the center of attention. She's not sure she ever learned how, come to think of it.

"I wasn't going to lose my family," she says, because it's all she can say, and--oh, the looks on their faces make her feel so tender and protective and _fierce_ all at once.

They are. They're her family. This is her strength, and her weakness, and she will fight for these men and the fragile love in their eyes for her last breath.

She's stunned them all into speechlessness with that little declaration. She can tell. So she smiles, and she stands, and as she brushes off her skirts she reaches out to Aramis with one hand. "I think," she says, and feels more than sees him snap to attention at her crispness, "that our returning heroes need a bath before we take them upstairs."

Aramis' eyes heat and soften all at once, and he nods, taking her hand and standing. Porthos starts to shift, clearly about to protest that they can draw their own bathwater--but Aramis presses his other hand to Porthos' lips, and kisses his forehead. "Let us," he says, stroking Porthos' curls, and Porthos smiles so sweetly at him that Constance's heart seizes with affection. 

She and Aramis can't stop touching each other as they draw the bath and heat the water--a hand here, a kiss on the shoulder there--and Constance can't remember the last time she felt like this. Like she doesn't have a care in the world. She's not preoccupied with what's happening outside the walls of this house.

Everything she needs is right here.

"You're happy," Aramis says softly, and Constance beams at him over her shoulder, as she picks the last pot off the hook and carries it to the tub.

"You are, too," she says, unable to stop smiling at him, and he grins back and helps her tip the pot into the tub. It splashes, steam rising--but not loudly enough for them to miss the clatter of wood from the kitchen. They share a look, one of Aramis' eyebrows climbing to his hair, and head back to the room they'd left. 

Aramis clicks his tongue in mock disapproval even as a wide smile slides across his face. "Athos, what did we just tell you?"

"Something," d'Artagnan gasps, holding Athos' head pressed firmly to the mark he's currently biting into the join of d'Artagnan's neck, "about me being injured, a gentle hand--neither of us was listening-- _oh,_ Porthos--"

"Yeah, sorry, Aramis," Porthos says, one broad hand spreading possessively low on d'Artagnan's belly, stroking down towards the obvious hardness in his trousers. "Definitely weren't listening." He's watching Athos ravage d'Artagnan's neck with narrowed, wanting eyes, and all three of them are half-perched on the table (Athos and d'Artagnan's chair is on its side on the ground, and Constance can only imagine what was said or done to make Athos pounce on their boy again).

"Bath, then bed," Aramis says firmly, stepping forward to kiss the back of Athos' neck. "We went to all this trouble, Athos."

Athos breaks away from d'Artagnan with a faint grumble. "I don't have any marks on the both of you anymore," he says, catching Aramis with a heated glare. "I intend to rectify that as soon as possible."

Aramis flushes and beams at him, and draws them both toward the washroom with a smile. Athos still has an arm around d'Artagnan, helping him limp to the chair Constance has moved next to the bathtub for him, and she lets the three of them make their stumbling way in favor of taking Porthos' hand and walking to the bathtub with him.

"Such service," Porthos teases her as she unties his shirt for him, stripping off his doublet as she does. "You'd think we'd been gone a year."

"It felt it," Constance murmurs against his lips as she stretches up to kiss him, and Porthos' hands settle on her shoulders a moment, holding her steady and sure. He winks at her as she draws back, and Constance sighs happily and helps him strip out of the rest of his clothes. 

She can see Athos and d'Artagnan kissing again out of the corner of her eye, Athos leaning on the back of d'Artagnan's chair and tipping d'Artagnan's face up to him. D'Artagnan's eyes are closed, lashes long on his cheeks and his face slack with pleasure--blissful at being the center of Athos' attention, she thinks with a smile, and turns back to Porthos.

"We missed you all," Porthos says, and leans down to kiss the very tip of her nose. Constance giggles, pushes him toward the tub, and Porthos goes with a grin. 

Aramis stops him with a hand on his chest, and when Porthos turns to him, Aramis spreads his hands across Porthos' chest and skims them down his sides. He's checking, Constance realizes instantly, for wounds, for new injuries he wasn't there to prevent.

Porthos lets him, smiling down at him with such tenderness, and when Aramis finally looks back up at him, relieved, Porthos kisses his forehead. "All whole, love," he says softly, and Aramis gives him a watery smile and helps him into the bathtub.

Porthos sinks down into the hot water with a groan of relief, and Constance's heart fills to see him looking so blissful--to see him _home,_ where he belongs. Aramis leans over the side of the tub to kiss him, and Porthos lays back and hums happily, his wet hand reaching up to card through Aramis' hair.

Athos and d'Artagnan break apart at the sound, and Constance watches Athos' eyes go intent and _hungry_ at the sight of Aramis and Porthos kissing. He must have missed them like this.

Yes, he _certainly_ did, because she's never seen him literally _throw_ his shirt to the other side of the room like that. He strips off the rest of his clothes without taking his eyes from them, and crosses to the tub with two purposeful strides.

Porthos and Aramis break apart with muffled sounds of surprise when Athos climbs in, and Porthos' grin spreads warm and dazzling as he reaches up to Athos. "Mm, hello."

"Hello," Athos says, his voice terse with his need, and he sinks down into the water on his knees--straddling Porthos, naturally, and Porthos surges up to meet him in an almost-violent kiss.

"I bet they haven't had a decent moment alone in weeks," d'Artagnan says in a mock-whisper to Constance, and she laughs out loud.

Porthos moans at the sound of her voice, sliding down a bit into the water, relaxing. Athos sinks even further down on his haunches, grabbing desperately at Porthos' face and shoulders to pull him closer, like he's trying to drag Porthos inside him. Porthos growls, hooks a hand in Athos' hair and hauls him down, and they're pressed chest-to-chest, mouths fused, and Constance is sure the water is steaming from the release of their tension as much as the heat.

Aramis stares, eyes glowing with heat, as Athos shifts up in Porthos' lap, shifts closer--swallows Porthos' growl in the near-frenzy of their kiss, his hands digging into the meat of Porthos' shoulders to stop their trembling.

"So many days, so close and unable to touch," Aramis says, his voice low and hoarse, and Athos lets out a strangled sound as he climbs Porthos like a tree. "How many close calls, Athos?"

"Too many," Athos groans as he tears his mouth away from Porthos', only to duck in to press a savage, biting kiss to his collarbone. Porthos hisses, fists a wet hand in Athos' hair and holds him there, his body surging up against Athos' under the water. "Too many when I wasn't close enough, when there wasn't anyone else to watch his back and _I'd_ been the one to order him there--"

"Wasn't a thing you could've done," Porthos cuts him off, his other arm around Athos' chest hauling him up, closer, and the hand in his hair dragging Athos close enough to rest their heads together. "Wasn't a damn thing you could have done different, and don't say _you_ had too many close calls when I wasn't the one walking on the sword's edge to be the _leader_ \--"

Athos moans against Porthos' lips as Porthos practically bends him backward in a kiss, his body going limp under the waterline where Porthos is holding him close--they all watch Athos shed the mantle of command as Porthos kisses him down, watch his shoulders slump and his hands tremble, and then Aramis is there to lean over the edge of the tub and kiss the nape of Athos' neck.

Athos gasps, seizes in Porthos' arms, and flails a hand back to hold onto Aramis, to fist his fingers in Aramis' dark hair and hold him close, and Aramis lets out a raw sound of approval.

"Hold him, Athos," Constance says, the words bubbling up in her chest impossible to stop. "Hold him, he needs it."

Athos chokes out a sound against Porthos' lips and tightens his hold on Aramis, awkward as it is--Aramis presses closer, leaning over the bathtub as far as he can, and Porthos breaks the kiss to move them. It's a matter of moments before Athos is up against the wall of the tub, Aramis' arms settling around his neck and Athos reaching up and back to hold him, with Porthos stroking Athos' sides and watching the two of them like he's counting each gasp and sigh and moan.

Athos and Aramis are always beautiful together. Like this--both completely lost, eyes closed and fingers grasping for each other--they're magnificent.

"Aramis, kiss him," Constance hears herself say, because Athos' face is screwed up in desperation and he's gasping and she can see that he _needs_ it-- And Aramis jolts forward and pulls Athos' head back, crashes their lips together in a messy kiss that is nothing if not _needy_. 

Athos cries out into Aramis' mouth and jerks uncontrollably against Porthos, and Porthos holds him still and watches with burning eyes until Athos slumps between the two of them, shuddering and clinging.

Constance doesn't need the smear of white spreading in the water to tell her that Athos was dancing on the edge, has been dancing on the edge for weeks, and Aramis and Porthos' touch together was all it took to send him over.

"Constance," Athos groans then, his eyes flickering open, and Constance shivers in reflex to hear her name said with so much heat. 

"She's been doing that," d'Artagnan says, laughter in his voice. 

Aramis chuckles, too, and Constance blinks between them all. What are they talking about?

"Has she now?" Porthos purrs, grinning over at her with warm approval dark in his eyes. 

Constance frowns at him. "Have I what?"

"Taken charge," Porthos says, his smile even wider, and Constance feels herself flush from the roots of her hair down to her chest.

She hadn't even thought about it. She'd seen what they were needing, so she told them to do it. They were soldiers, they knew how to follow orders. 

Aramis laughs throatily. "Oh, yes, she's been very, _very_ much the leader."

"Wonderful," Athos says hoarsely, sitting up and twisting so he's holding Aramis a little less awkwardly. "And do you enjoy it?"

His fingers must tighten in Aramis' hair, then, because Aramis goes weak against him. His jaw drops open and he presses forward, arching into Athos' touch. "Oh, yes, I do," Aramis gasps, staring at him with need writ plain on his face. "She's--she's so perfect, Athos."

Constance flushes even darker when Athos and Porthos' gazes shift to her. "I just--wanted to take care," she says, a curious mix of pride and nerves rising in her chest. "Of him. Them. Of all of us."

Porthos reaches out to her, holds up a dripping hand and motions her closer, and Constance drops to her knees at the side of the tub. Porthos' smile is so wide, so _proud,_ and Constance kisses him because _she_ needs to, because he's here and smiling at her and knows--somehow, she's sure he can tell, just from this--how much they'd gone through to keep themselves together.

"I'll bet you did," Porthos murmurs when they part, his lips tracing against hers. He doesn't pull away, not fully, keeps his mouth pressing lightly against the corner of hers. "Did you enjoy it, love? Having them like that?"

Constance relaxes into Porthos' touch, his kisses, the love so heavy in his hands. "I did," she says, then swallows, amends-- "I do, yes."

"Then don't let us stop you," Porthos says with a smile. And when his gaze locks in hers, Constance knows--she has them. All of them, no matter what she does, how much she might be such an undutiful housewife or fallen woman or disaster of a perfect lady.

They love her just like this. They _want_ her just like this.

And Constance wants this, too.

She turns her face and kisses the palm of Porthos' hand. "First," she says, and lets the firm control she loves to wield slip into the edge of her voice, "let's see about getting you two clean."

Athos hums interestedly from the other side of the tub, and Porthos' smile widens into something _delighted_ , something bright and happy and undeniably _proud._ "Yes, ma'am," he says, leaning back into the water, and Constance slides around behind him to grab the soap.

Athos watches her, a smile playing around the edges of his lips as he mirrors Porthos' pose, sinking down until the water brushes his collarbone. Aramis settles his hands on Athos' shoulders, kneading absently, just indulging in the pleasure of the touch. 

D'Artagnan eases himself to his feet, then, and drags his stool closer so he's near enough to touch. Porthos grins up at him when d'Artagnan reaches over and mirrors Aramis' hold on Athos, and Porthos tips his head back onto the side of the tub with a sigh. "Now this is what I'd missed."

"Such tender care," Athos drawls, but there's affection underneath the dryness.

Porthos grins. "I'd have given _you_ a rubdown or two if you'd let me."

Athos gazes steadily at him, heat in his eyes, and Porthos seems to know it from the way his smile softens, and he closes his eyes. 

"Get your hair wet, Athos," Aramis says quietly, tapping his temple, and Athos sighs and sinks beneath the surface for a moment. 

"Here," Constance says, passing the bar of soap to d'Artagnan, and he takes it with a smile, dips it into the water and starts to knead gently at Porthos' shoulders with it. Constance sits back on her heels, motioning for him to pass it to Aramis, and for a few moments Aramis and d'Artagnan pass the soap back and forth in peaceful quiet.

Constance doesn't know quite what to do with herself as she watches d'Artagnan and Aramis wash the dirt of the road from Porthos and Athos. She wants so much. She wants to have her hands on all of them, all _four_ of them, to hold them and make sure their hearts are still beating. She wants to see them hold each other. She wants to be sure all of their fears are eased the ways hers have been.

Porthos hums out a happy sound as d'Artagnan's fingers dig at the tender places just behind his ears, massaging the tension from his jaw, and his eyes flicker open to gaze up at him with so much affection. "Forgot how good you are with those fingers, whelp."

Aramis drops the bar of soap into the bathtub, his face suddenly flaming red.

Athos looks up at him with interest, reaching into the water for the soap. "Oh?"

"I didn't say anything," Aramis says, his cheeks stubbornly flushed and his eyes overbright.

"You don't have to," Athos nearly purrs, straightening, and he hands the soap across to Porthos so he can turn to Aramis. "Your whole body tells stories, Aramis."

"Oh, it does," d'Artagnan says with a charmingly filthy smile.

Porthos grins up at him in approval. "You been telling each other some dirty stories, is that it?"

As one, d'Artagnan and Aramis' eyes flick to Constance.

And just like that, she knows what to do.

Constance unfolds herself gracefully from the floor, standing and brushing off the knees of her skirt. "Why don't you two dry off and come upstairs," she says, delighted by how calm, how _happy_ she feels, "and we'll show you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, [you know where to find me.](http://tehriz.tumblr.com) also, part of my long absence from this fic has been due to some big life changes, one of which is my applying to and getting into an MFA program! thank you all so much for helping my development as a writer. if you are in any way interested in contributing in a tiny way to my move, [there's this redbubble I have???](http://www.redbubble.com/people/cherryfeather) bless you all for reading all my nonsense and turning me into a Real Writer with your love and support.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A reunion and a small demonstration.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAHA JUST KIDDING TWO MORE CHAPTERS SORRY. This kept getting longer and longer and I decided to break it up, because I love you guys and it's been too long since an update, and what is editing, anyway, when it comes to smut.

Constance shrieks with laughter as she curls her head in to Porthos' chest, her legs swinging as he twists sideways to get through the door. "Porthos!"

"It's a bit narrower than I'd remembered," he laughs, shifting her in his arms. "Mind your head."

She can't stop giggling, her arms tight around his neck, and he kisses her hair as he carries her up the stairs. Like a bride. She certainly wasn't carried this way in any shape or form when she _was_ married, and she's giddy with it tonight. Everything feels new. 

"I'd been thinking about doing this," he confesses, chuckling. "Tonight seems a good night for it."

"You can do it every day," she says, beaming up at him, and he winks at her. 

He carries her into the bedroom and sets her down with a little spin, and Constance clings to him, laughing, until the room stops twisting around her. "I feel like I should have tidied," she laughs, looking around at the bedroom--it's still in disarray from the morning, and the bed looks so inviting, not the half-empty tomb it's been sometimes.

"Nah, it's home," Porthos says, beaming as he looks around. "Just like we--oh, _hello,_ " he adds, his voice sharpening as something catches his attention, and Constance follows his gaze to her open drawer of linens. 

She hadn't put the harness away this morning. It's lying on top of the jumble of her chemises, the polished wooden phallus gleaming in the candlelight, and she flushes pink even as she sees Porthos' jaw drop. 

"You didn't," he says, and for a second Constance is sure he disapproves, and her stomach plunges--

"You _didn't,"_ Porthos says again, but he's rushing to the drawer now and he's beaming, and when he looks back at her his eyes are alight and he's flushing, too, and Constance nearly sways in relief. "Did you--this is what I think it is--isn't it?"

She hears the irregular thumping of Athos and Aramis half-carrying d'Artagnan up the stairs, and part of her thinks she should go and help, but-- More of her is here, with Porthos, her partner and ally and the one who understands this new, dominant side of her, and--

She's missed him so much. The way they fit, the way they play. 

"It is," she admits, and his grin is hot and wicked and so, so _proud._

Porthos picks up the phallus in one hand, cradling the delicate linen of the harness in the other, and she can tell he's admiring it, tracing the construction, and that, too, sends a flush of pride through her. He grins and shakes his head, lost for words, almost, and she crosses the room to him, tucks herself against his side and admires her creation with him. 

"Damn," he laughs. "Love, that's...that's impressive, that is."

"We all needed it," she says, and wraps her arms around his waist.

"You _fucked_ them like this," he says almost in wonderment. 

She laughs. "Not d'Artagnan, yet."

Porthos' eyes gleam as he looks down at her. "Just Aramis?"

"Just Aramis what?" Athos says as he, d'Artagnan, and the lover in question come through the bedroom door, a six-legged, ungainly process as they hold d'Artagnan between them. 

Porthos turns to him with a grin, showing what's in his hands, and Constance is treated to Athos' jaw actually dropping open--as Aramis flushes _deeply_ on d'Artagnan's other side.

"Oh, you found Constance's cock," d'Artagnan says with a vicious grin, eagerly looking for Athos' reaction as he leans into Aramis a little more--a good thing, too, because Athos' grip went slack on d'Artagnan's arm the moment he saw the phallus and harness.

Athos mouths soundlessly for a moment, color flooding high in his cheeks--and then he looks up at Porthos' wicked grin. "You did this."

Porthos beams at him. "Me?"

"Where would _Constance_ have bought a--" Athos shoves d'Artagnan into Aramis' arms and stalks across the floor to get a better look at the harness, at the phallus. Constance shares a delighted look with d'Artagnan--they've never had Athos this speechless before.

"Now, she made the harness all on her own," Porthos says, grinning, and nudges it toward Athos. Athos takes it with the look Constance sees him examine new swords, new pistols with, eyes narrowed and sharp. He's assessing, measuring--she can tell that he's seeing exactly how it would fit on her, how she'd use it. His breathing's already picked up.

"Surprised?" Porthos hasn't looked so smug in ages.

Athos clears his throat, his flush darkening. "I'm aware such devices exist, Porthos," he drawls, taking refuge in his airs, and Constance loves how he does that, she really does. "I've never had the good fortune to, ah, experience one before, though."

_That's_ an invitation if she's ever heard one, and Constance files it away for later (as does Porthos, she can tell by the way his eyes flash darker). Athos swallows hard, and she can see his mind whirling. "This does seem a fine example, though," he adds, in such a low voice it makes Constance's belly tremble.

Constance leans back into Porthos, shivers with pleasure when his arms wrap around her, holding her to his chest. "A fine example, you say," she says, purring inside despite herself.

Athos smiles at her tone, gaze flickering back up to hers. "This is what you've been doing with them?" he asks. "This is what they meant?"

She nods, grins when Porthos hums approval and hugs her tighter. Athos blinks rapidly, looking back down at the harness. 

"But _just Aramis,_ " he echoes, putting her earlier words in context, and over his shoulder Constance sees Aramis blush deeper.

D'Artagnan reaches up to stroke his cheek, nuzzling at Aramis' temple. "Why are you blushing?" he asks gently, kissing the flush in his cheekbones. "Are we embarrassing you?"

Aramis bites his lip, looking so adorably off-kilter that Constance wants to go kiss him. "I feel like none of you...get as needy as I do," he says, nudging d'Artagnan towards the bed. 

D'Artagnan goes, well aware that Aramis needs something to do besides stand there and hear them talk about how they like to fuck him, and he smiles sweetly up at Aramis as he's settled at the foot of the bed. 

"Rubbish," Porthos says gently, no censure in his tone, and Aramis looks at him with his heart clear in his eyes. "We all need different things. This one's yours."

Aramis flushes again, but he smiles and drops his gaze, sitting down on the bed with d'Artagnan.

Athos carefully hands the harness back to Constance, with a last, lingering look at the smooth curve of the phallus. "I look forward to seeing that," he says, then turns to the bed, his hands moving to the laces on his smallclothes--the only thing any of them are wearing after the bath and the trip upstairs. "But now, I think something else."

"Yeah," Porthos agrees, low and intent, moving to strip off, too and Constance deposits the harness carefully back in her open drawer before following them all to bed. She leaves her chemise on the floor, her eyes on Porthos as he sits beside Aramis, as Athos slides in on d'Artagnan's other side. She joins them, completing their loose circle, and Athos draws her close as she sits down. 

Constance takes a deep breath, her eyes falling shut. She can feel all their warmth, and she wants to savor this--all of them, together in their home, in their bed again, nothing but skin between them. Like they're meant to be. 

Athos kisses her in the soft space behind her ear, and she lets out a long, heavy breath, covering his hand with hers. "You're really back," she says. 

"Yeah, love," Porthos says, his voice a little thick. "Yeah, we are."

"It feels like it's been so long," she can't help but say, because it still aches, a healing wound now but a wound all the same, and Athos tightens his arms around her. 

"Longer," d'Artagnan murmurs, because it's all that needs saying, and when Constance opens her eyes to look at him, he's holding hands with Aramis, his chin hooked over Aramis' shoulder, and he looks so peaceful. 

Aramis does not look peaceful. Aramis is gazing back and forth between all of them like he's starving, like he'll never be able to look his fill, his heart aching on his face, and Constance feels more than sees when Porthos and Athos sense his distress.

"Oh, love," Porthos says, his voice cracking a little, and his eyes are shining when he reaches out to Aramis, pulls him closer until he's half-sprawled across the mattress in Porthos' arms. "You missed us that much?" 

Aramis stretches helplessly up to him, and Porthos kisses him with heat, with teeth, and Aramis is melting into his arms, crawling the rest of the way across the bed so he can drop into Porthos' lap and be held. "I did," Aramis manages to say when Porthos seems like he can bear to let him go. "I didn't know what happens to me without you."

Porthos' eyes blaze, and he hauls Aramis up into another kiss. "We're never gonna have to find out," he swears, pushing Aramis' hair back from his face and holding Aramis to look right into his eyes. "Never, Aramis, you hear me?"

Aramis nods fiercely, falls into him again with a soft sound, and Porthos kisses his promise into Aramis' lips, cheeks, forehead. 

"You're so beautiful," Athos says, his voice almost pained, and Constance squeezes his hand. They are. She'd almost forgotten how beautifully the two of them fit, how tender yet fierce they are with each other. 

How their passion can catch the tinder of hers and feed it, like a fire. 

Porthos strokes his thumbs along Aramis' cheekbones, his eyes so dark and his face so intent. "I think I'd really like to hear," he says, his smile a little hungry, "exactly what you've been doing with Constance and d'Artagnan, hmm?"

Aramis shivers in his arms, his teeth catching in his bottom lip as he looks up at Porthos, and Constance feels Athos let out a hot breath against her neck. Aramis is so gorgeous, he's so appealing it makes her belly drop with desire. "They hold me between them," he says, leaning into Porthos' broad, warm chest. "Constance--" He flushes again, looking sidelong at her, and she grins, nods to encourage him. "She knows just what I need," he says, his eyes heating as his lips curve up into a smile. "Oh, and she tells me how to take it."

"I bet you love it," Porthos says, leaning in to kiss the curve of Aramis' jaw. 

Aramis arches into him with a gasp. "Ah, I--I do." His eyes glow luminous and huge as he gazes across the bed at her, at Athos and d'Artagnan. "I go mad with it sometimes, how much I feel like I need and how much _more_ they give me."

"Is that so?" Athos' voice has dropped almost to a growl, and Constance catches her breath as she feels his mouth on her neck, as d'Artagnan comes a little closer and Athos' kiss turns to teeth. 

Aramis moans softly as Porthos kisses his neck, kisses down to his collarbones as his hands smooth over Aramis' sides, down his thighs, gripping and kneading at the muscles, at the smooth tan skin. Porthos is humming, almost growling, low and steady in his chest, just breathing Aramis in and soaking him up. Athos _is_ growling, nipping at Constance's neck as he holds her, as d'Artagnan holds _him_ , and d'Artagnan's ragged, hushed breaths are in counterpoint to the pulse of her own heart.

She wants them so much she's starting to feel like she's burning with it. The _need_ she'd felt in the kitchen is coming back, the pulsing burn to hold them all and touch them all and make sure they're all as filled and loved as she feels now. 

"Do you want to show them?" d'Artagnan says, his voice so hot and so wicked, and how does he always read her mind? "Constance?"

Aramis' eyelashes dip, and he looks at the pair of them with speaking desire in his gaze. He always wants it, is what he doesn't have to say, and he looks so steady in all the ways he hasn't lately. 

"I do," Constance says, her own gaze locked in Aramis', hoping he sees the same desire in hers. "Porthos, Athos, do you want to see?"

Porthos' voice is nearly a sigh. "Yeah."

"God, yes," Athos groans against her skin. 

Aramis looks at her with sweet, soft surrender in his eyes, and Constance looks to d'Artagnan, to see him beaming at her. 

"All right, then," she says, and reaches up and back to thread her hand through Athos' hair. "Let me see you all."

It's a matter of moments before d'Artagnan and Athos have arranged her at the head of the bed, pillows settled for her so she can see, with Porthos and Aramis watching hungrily from the side where they sit still holding hands.

Constance licks her lips and leans back against the pillows, feeling like she's settling into a throne. She can feel her boys straining, almost, like a pack of hounds pulling against their leads--and God, but she's ready to let them loose. 

"Athos, have you kissed Aramis since we got in bed?" she asks, barely controlling the dry rasp of her own desire.

He shakes his head, blue eyes nearly black, and Constance feels a throb of heat to see him waiting for her say. 

"Kiss him like you want to," she says, and Athos and Aramis moan in unison as they collide. 

Porthos swears, d'Artagnan gasps hoarsely, and Constance hisses in her breath as she watches them devour each other. Athos is ferocious, biting and sucking and fucking Aramis' mouth with his tongue, and Aramis lets Athos bend him practically backward, moaning encouragement all the while.

When Aramis overbalances and falls to the sheets, Athos follows him down. When Aramis splays his legs open and hooks them around Athos', pulling him in, Athos _growls_ and pins him. When Aramis' fingers dig into Athos' back, hauling him even closer like he just can't bear to have any space between them, Athos gasps like he's been hit and seals his mouth over Aramis' like Aramis is the source of all air and breath and life in the universe.

Aramis is making punched-out little sounds as Athos moves against him, helpless and carnal. Athos is just panting for air like a stallion who's been ridden for miles (fuck, she shouldn't have thought that, she wants to ride _all_ of them like stallions tonight but she has other plans), and he's skating his hands all over Aramis' face and shoulders and arms and sides as he kisses him down, kisses him apart. He's touching like he can't get enough, like he never may have enough, and Aramis presses his whole body up against Athos in a searingly beautiful arch to take it. Athos gasps, hooks one arm around Aramis to hold him closer, to keep his body as close as possible as his motions turn frantic--

And then Athos breaks away, pushing himself up onto his hands and knees with a guttural groan, and Aramis slumps back up into the sheets, disheveled with swollen lips and face shining, reaching up with one hand, so unbelievably appealing that Constance's belly twists in lust. "Athos?"

"I don't want to come again yet," he pants, his arms trembling as he holds himself up. "You're so--you're too--oh, Aramis…" He sounds almost plaintive, and Constance can see how hard he is, how flushed and dark and dripping wet his cock is, and Aramis' slow-spreading smile at that makes d'Artagnan groan and crawl across the sheets to them like he just can't stay away anymore.

Athos seizes on him with a fervency that borders desperation, and Aramis sits up to kiss and bite at d'Artagnan's collarbone, the sensitive places on his neck, tipping him over into Athos' arms so he can get better access. 

Constance can't breathe. D'Artagnan lies half-sprawled in Athos' lap like a maiden in a painting, arched up to kiss him as Aramis mouths at the lines of the muscles in his chest. It's decadent and sinful and she loves them so much she feels _drunk_ with it, seeing Athos kissing d'Artagnan with a fistful of his long hair to hold him where he wants it, seeing Aramis moaning in pleasure as he closes his mouth around one dusky brown nipple, seeing d'Artagnan buck and gasp into Athos' mouth and clutch wildly at Aramis' hair.

Constance jerks and gasps when Porthos' hand lands on her belly, so caught up in the tableau she's forgotten about her own body. But oh god yes, she's covered in a sheen of sweat, so wet she can feel herself leaking down her thighs, and when she looks up at Porthos, who's staring down at her like she's a vision of God, she feels the heat dancing under her skin condense into a blaze of need. "Oh," she gasps out, her hand flying to cover his, and Porthos makes a sound like rock breaking as he surges down to kiss her.

Constance clutches at the back of his neck, anchoring herself to him, and she's just moaning openmouthed into his kiss, holding on so hard she knows her nails are digging in--and oh, Porthos, her Porthos, he just kisses her harder, holds her tighter. He slides his hand down her belly to run two fingers down the soaking length of her cunt, and she bucks up, hard, crying out against his lips as he pulls back just enough to see her face.

"Look at you," he breathes, and his eyes are so dark, and he's as flushed with sweat as she is, and oh, God, she's missed him so much-- "Look at them," he adds, cutting his eyes across the bed, and she looks over and moans. 

Aramis is licking along the length of d'Artagnan's cock, his cheek resting on their boy's hipbone. D'Artagnan's moaning on every exhale, his head tipped back onto Athos' shoulder, and Athos is trailing his nails up and down d'Artagnan's chest. But all three of them are looking at Constance and Porthos, even Aramis, and when Constance meets his eyes he sucks the head of d'Artagnan's cock into his mouth with a soft sound, like he just can't help it. He doesn't look away for a second, and neither does d'Artagnan, even as he bucks up into Aramis' mouth with a pant of desire. Athos, his eyes locked on them, reaches up and twists one of d'Artagnan's already-swollen nipples.

Porthos' wicked chuckle shakes her whole body, and Constance presses up into him, loving it, loving all of it--

"Look at how fucking gorgeous you all are," he says, dipping his head to kiss her lips, her forehead, her brows. "Missed this. Missed you." 

"Oh, Porthos," she moans, half-gone with it, and he strokes over her slit again, spreading her wetness up to her clit and circling his fingers--light, so light she whines and bucks up again. "I missed you so much," she gets out, looking up at him as he runs his gaze down her whole body, across the bed to their other three and then back to her, like he doesn't know what he wants to look at more--but at that, his eyes snap to hers, and he smiles so sweet and so sunlit that she has to squirm up in his hold just to be closer.

"Every day I thought about this," he says low against her skin, dipping his head to kiss the bite marks Athos left on her neck. "All five of us, all together. Like it should be." 

She's holding him so tightly her hand aches, but she can't let go, she can't imagine letting go. "Our family," she says, her throat thick. 

Porthos shivers--she feels it, all through her--and presses a featherlight kiss just above her heart. "Yeah," he agrees, his voice rough, and he rests his forehead against her chest with a sweet, soft smile.

And then he lifts his head and grins, roguish and sharp, and slips his slick fingertips right into her cunt. "And I missed this, too."

She drops her head back with a helpless groan, hitching her hips up to get more of him in her, and she hears all their loves across the bed draw a hasty breath. She can only imagine what they're seeing, with Porthos beside her, _inside_ her, her legs spread and her chest flushed and heaving--

Athos makes a faint snarling sound and d'Artagnan chokes a gasp and Aramis moans, and Constance knows without having to look that Athos is biting d'Artagnan's shoulder as the three of them watch, that d'Artagnan loves it and Aramis is in heaven, and Porthos chuckles low and filthy and slides his fingers into her up to the palm. 

She's so ready for him that her body opens up, welcoming, and Porthos groans, pressing another helpless kiss to her chest, her shoulder. "You have been missing us," he says, low and fervent, and fucks his fingers in and out a few times--just, she knows, for the sound of it, wet and obscene and so, so good. 

"How wet is she?" d'Artagnan gasps, like he'll die if he doesn't know, and Porthos flashes a grin over his shoulder. 

"How wet d'you think?" he asks, and adds a third finger, twisting his hand. Constance lets out a sound of pure pleasure, a groan dredged up from the deepest parts of herself that she'd never known she could make two years ago, and d'Artagnan whispers out her name over and over, _Constance Constance ConstanceConstanceConstance_ as she hears Aramis starting to make slick, filthy sounds on his cock.

"Can d'Artagnan come?" Athos asks, for all the world sounding as dispassionate as if he were asking if it were raining outside. "Do you have further plans for him, my love?"

"He's still young," Porthos laughs wickedly. "He'll get it up again by the time we're done."

Constance pushes herself up again so she can see, so she can _watch_ , even with her vision blurring in pleasure at the feeling of Porthos' hand in her. Oh, just seeing them--Aramis working at d'Artagnan's cock with his slack mouth, Athos cradling d'Artagnan and stroking his chest, and that dark bite mark branding his shoulder--it's enough to make her soak Porthos' hand again, her cunt pulsing out another flush of wetness. He hisses a soft breath, strokes her inside with all three fingers, and Constance lets herself push into it, riding his hand and his motions. 

"D'Artagnan," she says, and his hazy eyes find her, his head tucked in the crook of Athos' arm, his hand threaded into Aramis' curls. He looks like he could spend the rest of his life happily where he is, and she can't blame him at all. "Do you want to come?"

He grits his teeth and nods, tipping his head back, secure that Athos has him, as his hips roll up into Aramis' mouth. "Yes, Constance."

She wants to see him from this angle, to watch him be held and be fucked and surrender himself to it. "You can come when Aramis makes you," she says, and grins to see him shudder for the permission, to see Aramis moan his thanks and start properly working at it. He'd only been playing before, keeping d'Artagnan keyed up and his own mouth filled while they watched Constance and Porthos together, keeping their edges honed. Now he's sucking d'Artagnan the way he knows he likes, working to please him, to make him lose control.

"So it's like that?" Porthos asks, and when she looks at him he's gazing at her with that mix of love and pride and almost _relief._ "You been taking them both in hand like that?"

"Yes," she says, and gets herself the stroke of his thumb over her clit for her answer, the curl of his fingers inside her as he presses on that place from both inside and out. She gasps, her belly dropping and her thighs spasming, and shakes into it, loves it. "Oh, _God_ \--yes, God, it's been so good--taking them like that, taking _care_ of them like that--"

"Yeah," Porthos says, and ducks to kiss her, to press their foreheads together and kiss her breathless, like he needs it as much as she does, like he can't help it. "Yeah, fuck, yeah, like they need the whole world and you're the only one who can give it to them--"

She clings to him, reaches up and grabs on because she can't _not_. "Yes, oh, yes, and it feels so good--"

"Ah, fuck," Porthos grinds out, his voice cracking, and the motion of his hand in her gets harder, fiercer. "Yeah, love, yeah, it does, it's fucking magic when you get them right where you can give them everything like that--"

D'Artagnan gives a broken sob across the sheets, and they both look up to see him bucking, jerking in Athos' hold--Aramis has his head so far down on d'Artagnan's cock that his nose is brushing the curls at the base, and Athos is petting his head, the tightly controlled rise and fall of his own chest the only hint that he's as affected as d'Artagnan is. Aramis' cheeks are stained red, his throat spasming even where she can see it, but his eyelashes are heavy and dark on his cheeks and he's _blissful_ even when he's choking himself like this--

"When you get them just _there,_ " Porthos says, and Constance clenches down around him so hard she sees stars, coming in a rush as d'Artagnan yells and empties himself down Aramis' throat. 

It takes a minute for her senses to come back, and when she does it's to the feel of d'Artagnan joining them. She opens her eyes as Athos lays him down so tenderly in Porthos' lap beside her, and d'Artagnan makes a soft sound and leans forward to kiss her the moment he sees she's back. She sighs, stroking his cheek, and gives into it for a long moment, both of them loose and soft after their orgasms. Aramis stretches out between them, his head pillowed on her lap, and Constance reaches down to stroke his hair as she catches her breath.

She hears a soft, pained, _"Porthos,"_ and she opens her eyes and lifts her head to see Athos on his knees next to Porthos and d'Artagnan, his face pressed to Porthos' shoulder. Porthos is kissing his forehead, whispering so soft that Constance can't even hear it, close as they all are, and Athos looks--he looks open, desperate and vulnerable in a way he almost never is.

"Athos?" she asks, coming more alert by the moment, but it's Aramis who answers.

"He feels guilty sometimes about needing us," Aramis says, hoarse and wrecked from having d'Artagnan in his throat, but still quiet. "Especially when Porthos tells us how much he loves taking care of us. It's hard for him to admit he can need like that."

Athos half laughs, looking down at Aramis with the ghost of a smile on his face. "You give away all my secrets, beloved," he says, and he's so tender even when he looks like he's in pain with it.

Aramis smiles, his eyes turning even warmer when d'Artagnan's hand joins Constance's in his hair. "I need you," he says simply. "All of you, just like this. It doesn't scare me anymore."

Athos reaches down to stroke his face, to trace his fingers over Aramis' red and raw lips. "It doesn't?"

Aramis shakes his head, his eyes darkening as his lips part for Athos' touch. "I know you have me."

"In every way," Porthos says, a promise as much as an agreement, and Aramis shivers, his eyes darting up to him.

"More?" Aramis asks, and Porthos and Athos' gazes both go dark and hot.

And Constance remembers, just then, that she'd promised them something, too. 

Before they left, in the kitchen, when they'd been talking about Aramis always needing more--they'd thought. That they could. That Constance and d'Artagnan could help them--

"Oh," she breathes, heat flooding her, and she feels all of their eyes on her. "I just remembered."

"What?" Aramis tilts his head up so he can see her, and she reaches down to stroke his hair, to run her fingers along the line of his jaw, tracing over Athos' where he still strokes gently at Aramis' skin. 

She smiles at Aramis. "You want them, sweetheart, don't you?"

His eyelashes dip low, his cheeks flushing. "Yes."

"Both of them?"

"God, yes." 

Constance feels a nervous flutter in her belly--but it's excited nerves, not fear. "Before they left, I promised them we'd try something when you were well."

Porthos catches his breath. He's faster on the uptake than Athos, sometimes, but she doesn't look away from Aramis' face to see if they've all realized. She wants to see what Aramis looks like when she tells him.

"What?" Aramis asks, rolling slowly onto his side so he can look more fully at her.

She doesn't stop stroking his face, her thumb moving steadily back and forth on his cheekbone, her fingers curling back in the hollow of his jaw. "You know we've been fucking you more and more open," she says, her cunt pulsing hot and warm again just at the memory of spreading him with her cock and d'Artagnan's, last night.

He shudders, a tremble down his back, and turns his face into her palm, mouthing kisses at the base of her hand. "God, yes."

Athos makes a tiny sound next to Porthos, who's breathing harder, faster, and Constance flushes all down her chest--just knowing that they _know_.

"We were getting you ready for them, my love," she tells Aramis, soft and low. "So that when they came home, you could have them both, all at once."

Aramis stares at her.

She gets to see the understanding dawn on his face. She gets to watch his lips part as he takes a quick breath, as the ring of brown in his eyes thins and nearly vanishes, as his cheeks go so red it spills down to his neck and chest. 

And she gets to see him look up at Athos and Porthos, to see the two emotions warring for dominance on his face.

Adoration, and pure, blind lust. 

The bed nearly tips over when they all lunge for each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more and an epilogue coming! [as always, if you need me.](http://tehriz.tumblr.com)


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Constance's heart nearly melts, seeing them so happy, together again. They need this, all of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all, so much, for your patience while I sort through my life. Here we are at last.

"Mmm, yes, love, I know," Constance purrs as she strokes Aramis' chest. "Does it feel good?"

Aramis' head falls back, his lips parted as he pants for air. "Yes," he gasps, his hips hitching up. "Yes, yes."

"Two fingers now," d'Artagnan murmurs into Athos' ear. "He can take it."

Aramis moans aloud and jerks in Porthos' arms, and between his legs, Athos watches with fire-bright eyes. It had taken a little arranging to get everyone settled and touching after Constance shared her plan, but they're all comfortable now and it's even better. Aramis lies on his back between Porthos' legs, and Athos kneels between his, with d'Artagnan draped over Athos' shoulder to whisper instructions and filthy suggestions in his ear. 

Constance, herself, is stretched out on pillows next to Porthos and Aramis so she can see--and direct--everything. She feels regal, desired, _powerful._ "There," she says, digging her fingernails in a bit as she strokes over Aramis' chest again. "That's filling you up, isn't it?"

"Yes," Aramis whimpers. "Yes, please, more." Constance relishes the liquid rush between her legs at that, the sweet heat she feels knowing she'd planned this right. 

Porthos groans softly into Aramis' hair, and his palms stroke restlessly over Aramis' thighs. He's not fully holding Aramis open for Athos, but even the suggestion of his touch there is doing it for all of them. "Oh, you'll get more, love. Just you wait, you will."

Athos lets out a harsh pant, and he twists his fingers inside Aramis. Aramis moans again, long and low as his hips jerk, and Athos' eyes glitter. "You're so beautiful," he says, raking his eyes over Aramis' lithe, sweat-soaked body. "I can't believe we can have you like this."

Aramis' eyelashes flutter, and his body curves in a gorgeous arc, his lips parted in a wanting sigh. "You can have me any way you want," he says, his voice throbbing with sincerity. 

Athos growls and ducks his head, and Aramis cries out high and sweet as Athos bites him on his thigh. Constance pets his chest to soothe him, even as she wants just what he's getting. But she knows she can't keep her control the way she wants if she's getting fucked while they're doing this--she'll lose her focus, might miss something, and she's promised them she'll keep a steady eye. 

Later, then. There's always later. 

"How often have they been doing this to you?" Porthos says in Aramis' ear. His teeth flash white as he nips at the lobe, as Aramis' throaty moan bubbles up again. "Every day?"

"And more," d'Artagnan laughs, wicked. "You know keeping him filled is an all-day job."

Aramis flushes and turns his face to hide it in Porthos' chest with a soft moan. Constance's heart thuds hard in her chest, making all of her weak with affection, and she laces her fingers through Aramis'. "No shame, my love," she says, squeezing his hand. 

"Don't hide from us," Porthos says, one hand coming up to cradle Aramis' face, fingers on his cheek and one thumb stroking Aramis' mouth. "You can show us how good you are, how much you love it."

"I'm not ashamed," Aramis says, his lips dragging over Porthos' thumb. "I'm--I'm only--" He shudders and lets out a surprised moan, looking down to where Athos is scissoring his fingers open, shut, open again, slow and deliberate. "So much," he gasps, his head falling back onto Porthos' chest.

"This?" Athos raises his eyebrows, but he stills the motion of his hand at once, presses a kiss to the inside of Aramis' knee. "You've taken more than this."

"Not that." Aramis' cheeks stain red, and he closes his eyes. "Me."

It takes a moment, and then Constance props herself up on one arm, to look down at him. "You're think you're too much for us?"

He looks up through his lashes at her--not on purpose, he's not trying to be coy or winsome. He's actually shy. 

She could drown him in platitudes, or wax poetic. But they're all too raw, too needy, for that. So she reaches out with her other hand to stroke his hair, his temples. "You fill us up, too, you know," she tells him, hoarse and soft. 

Aramis gazes back at her, and there it is, in his eyes: that vulnerability, that openness that goes straight to his heart. And straight to hers. 

She smiles at him, and warms all over when he smiles back, when he eases. She settles the now-familiar responsibility on herself like a cloak, wraps herself in the hot, steady surety that she'll take care of him, that she's the one who will give them all what they need. 

"Athos," she says, without taking her eyes from Aramis, "more, now."

Aramis' eyes fall shut on a soft cry as Athos obeys. Porthos hums a little chuckle and nuzzles Aramis' hair, possessive and eager as he strokes Aramis' thigh with his other hand. "Love it when we got you in hand like this," he half-growls into Aramis' ear, his eyes darting up to Constance as he does. She thrills to the heat in his eyes, the pride, and Porthos grins at her as his hands roam restlessly over Aramis' skin.

"I love it when you have me in hand," Aramis laughs, a breathless smile curving his lips as he arches into Athos' touch. "I love you." Porthos bites a kiss to his ear and Aramis' laugh turns to a groan, his hips canting desperately up as he pushes back into Porthos' kiss. The muscles in his stomach flex as his cock twitches, full and heavy and dripping on his abdomen. 

Athos' eyes follow the sinful curve of Aramis' body, lingering on the tempting sight of his slick and shining cock. D'Artagnan, hanging on his shoulder like a wicked devil, sees and laughs, his teeth nipping at Athos' ear. "Hungry?"

"Starved," Athos drawls, punctuating the word with another twist of his hand. Aramis gasps and arches for it again, looking at Athos with those same open, wanting eyes, and Athos' own eyes burn hot as he keeps his fingers moving, gaze locked in Aramis'. 

"Save some for me," Porthos says. He's watching like he wants to devour Athos as well, and Athos' own cheeks flood hot when he looks up to meet Porthos' eyes. Porthos grins at him, and Athos smiles almost helplessly, all his commanding demeanor dropping away in the face of having both of them look at him like that. 

Constance's heart nearly melts, seeing them so happy, together again. They need this, all of them. 

And Aramis is probably going to fly apart if they keep stalling, so. 

"Athos," she purrs, and thrills inside when he snaps to attention, his eyes turning their heat to her. "I think he can take more now."

Athos' eyes go wild at the edges, but his movements stay slow, controlled, as he slides his fingers slowly out, as d'Artagnan reaches down to show him what to do. Porthos watches, his breath coming a little faster, his eyes almost as wild as Athos'. 

"Just like that," d'Artagnan murmurs, kissing Athos' jaw. "You'll feel so good in him." 

They're all staring at Athos' hand, four fingers held together and his thumb tucked under, and Constance knows she's biting her lip, can't help it. She was so _desperately_ aroused to see Aramis take so much the first time they tried it--her belly drops and her thigh muscles shiver even now, remembering how slick he was, how _hot_ , how open. 

"Please, please," Aramis whimpers, his stomach trembling, and Porthos soothes him, strokes his thighs as Athos adds more salve to his fingers. 

"Easy, love, he's got you," Porthos says, but his own voice is so rough, so deep and wanting. "You ready for him to fill you back up?"

Aramis moans out a _yes_ , spreading his legs even wider, beautifully on display for them, and Athos takes a deep breath. His hand is trembling, and Constance can tell how much this is affecting him and Porthos both--being so close to this, to having each other how they've wanted to for so long. 

She reaches out to push Athos' sweat-slick hair from his forehead, and he turns into her touch, his eyes so deep they're almost black as he looks up at her. She checks in with him silently, a wordless confirmation he wants to keep going, and Athos' lashes dip in a nod of acceptance. 

Then he nips lightly at her palm, teeth sharp and teasing, and Constance swats him gently, laughing. "Go on, then."

Athos' voice is a low purr as he pushes his fingers slowly, so slowly, back into Aramis. "How does this feel, Aramis?"

Aramis' mouth falls open on a silent exhale, like Athos' fingers are pushing all the breath from him, his head dropping back onto Porthos' shoulder as Athos gives him more, more, more--until he's stretched wider than he's been, all night. It's not the most open she and d'Artagnan have had him, but it's brand-new to Porthos and Athos. 

Athos' breath comes in ragged pants as he turns his hand, still slow, still gentle, and Aramis lets out a high, broken sound as Athos' knuckles tug at his stretched, slick rim. Athos freezes, his eyes flashing up to Aramis' face, but in the same second Aramis lets out a gasping little sob, turning his face into Porthos' neck. "Good, it's so good, Athos, please don't stop, please--"

Porthos splays his hand across the base of Aramis' neck, holding him close, even as the fingers of his other hand clench in the meat of Aramis' thigh, tugging it up so he's even wider, even more open. "Got you," Porthos echoes, his voice almost a growl, and his hand flexes covetously on Aramis' neck. Aramis whimpers, arching, pushing into Porthos' touch and trying to get more of Athos in him. Porthos digs his fingers in, holding Aramis still, just to hear him moan and see him go limp again. 

"That's right," Constance says, her voice honey, "just let us, Aramis." Aramis' eyes flicker open, searching dizzily for her, and she reaches out for his hand, drawing his arm up so she can kiss his fingertips. Aramis hums out softly--then groans as she sucks his fingers into her mouth, her tongue curling slick and wicked around them. God, they haven't even touched his cock and he looks like he's about to come, mouthing her name and shuddering in Porthos' hold. 

"Does that feel good?" Porthos nuzzles behind Aramis' ear, grinning as he watches Constance fellate Aramis' fingertips. "Are we making you feel good?"

Aramis nods helplessly and opens his mouth to answer--only right then Athos turns his hand. Aramis chokes, his eyes practically roll back in his head, and his whole body shudders as he comes all over himself. 

It's gorgeous, all the more so because it surprises them all so much. Aramis usually doesn't come just from them opening him up, he needs more friction and most times at least a touch to his cock--but God, now his cock jerks over and over again, painting his chest with spend nearly up to Porthos' hand. Athos, flushed with shock and staring, fucks him steadily through it, his hand rhythmic and careful, and Porthos buries his face in Aramis' shoulder, groaning softly. D'Artagnan's as flushed as Athos, looking almost envious as Aramis trembles through one of the hardest orgasms any of them have ever seen. It's obscene and beautiful and Constance nearly has to reach down between her legs to take care of herself, she's so wet just watching. 

"God, look at you," Porthos murmurs in Aramis' ear, his eyes soft and shining as much as they are absolutely scorching with desire. "Came all over yourself for us, with all those fingers in you. You're fucking beautiful."

Aramis' lips curl in a dizzy but triumphant smile, as he lies limp against Porthos' chest with his eyes half-closed. He looks drugged, drunk on pleasure, and Athos slows the hand he has in him, sharing a quick glance with Constance. Aramis keens quietly, and his mouth works soundlessly for a few tries before he gets out, "Don't stop."

Athos lets out a breathless chuckle, looking up at him with love and pure lust warring to show the most in his eyes. "Are you sure?" Aramis nods, reaching a shaky hand down to curl in Athos' hair, tender and caressing as much as it's lacking in steadiness, and Athos closes his eyes for a moment, looking almost overcome.

D'Artagnan kisses Aramis' hand and Athos' temple. "He can take it," he assures Athos, then unwraps himself from Athos' back and crawls up the bed to Aramis' side. "He begged me for more the day I came home, right after I made him come by fucking him open and sucking his cock." He beams down at Aramis, pushing his sweaty curls back from his face and leaning in to brush a kiss over his lips. "Didn't you, love?"

Aramis looks up at their youngest with so much love and worship in his eyes, it makes Constance's heart ache. She feels the same for d'Artagnan. He's so generous with them all. "You were so good to me," Aramis says, stretching up for another kiss. "You're always so good."

D'Artagnan grins at him, cocky and cheeky as ever. "I know," he says, and leans down to lick up a stripe of come from Aramis' chest. Aramis catches his breath, shivering at the sensation, and Athos actually growls from down the bed. D'Artagnan flips his hair back and beams wickedly down at Athos. "Come on, get that hand working, he's almost ready for you both to fuck him."

Then he bends back to his task of cleaning Aramis' chest of his spend, and Constance seriously contemplates tying him to the bedpost for a week. From the looks on Athos' and Porthos' faces, she's not alone in this desire.

"You trying to provoke us into railing your arse next, pup?" Porthos asks, reaching down to tangle one hand in d'Artagnan's loose hair. D'Artagnan looks up and meets Porthos' eyes as he licks across Aramis' nipple, mouth wide open and tongue hanging out and utterly fucking filthy, and Porthos grins quick and vicious and tugs hard on his hair. D'Artagnan's eyes flutter shut, his moan echoing the one Aramis lets out at the lick across his oversensitized chest, and Porthos drops his hand with a laugh. 

Constance's belly gives a warm shiver, imagining all the things she's ready to do to d'Artagnan. "He's already next in line for _my_ cock," she says, just to watch all her boys jerk and pant at the still-new word from her lips. "But I suppose you can have him when I've finished."

"When you gave her that thing," Athos says to Porthos, very nearly managing to keep his voice steady, "did you realize what you were getting us all into?"

"Nah," Porthos says, beaming at her. He looks proud and lustful and so many things Constance still blushes to see in his face, and she leans in to kiss his shoulder so she doesn't lose her composure. He nuzzles his face against her hair, a rumble of affection sending warmth through her--then laughs. "But I knew what was gonna get into _you._ "

"Oh, for _God's_ sake," Athos groans, as Aramis tips his head back and laughs and laughs, his hoarse voice cracking with it. 

"You'll love it," Aramis says, smiling down at him. "It feels so good. As good as this does." His head lolls to the side and he reaches out for Constance, his shining black eyes hazy and warm on her. "It's so good."

She takes his hand again and spreads his fingers open to kiss his palm. "You take it so beautifully," she tells him, and laughs as he flushes and squirms in pleasure. "We love taking care of you as much as we love fucking you."

Porthos grins and bites lightly at Aramis' ear again. "Fuckin' him _is_ taking care of him. He needs it." Aramis flushes even deeper and bites his lip, writhing in Porthos' hold, and Athos and d'Artagnan both tighten their grips on him. 

"Embarrassed again?" Athos drawls, the mockery in his tone belied by the tenderness in his eyes, the gentleness in his other hand as it strokes over Aramis' thigh. Constance will never stop being amazed at how very gently Athos handles them all. 

Aramis shakes his head, whimpers starting to build up behind his breath again. "No," he gets out, "no, I'm--" He sucks in a deep breath as Athos twists his hand again, gasping little sounds of need, until he gets himself under control, and finally gets out, "I'm not sure how much more I can _wait,_ I _do_ need it, please--"

"Shh," d'Artagnan soothes him, and strokes a steady hand down Aramis' ribs. "We know, you're almost there. Athos, how does he feel?"

Athos almost laughs, flicking a burning gaze up at d'Artagnan and Aramis both. "Better than I could have remembered. More open than I've ever felt."

Porthos breathes out hard against Aramis' neck, and his hands move restlessly over Aramis' skin--still so gentle, so caring, but Constance can see him working hard on his control. "You're doing so well," he says to Aramis, kissing the shell of his ear. "Doing so well for us. You feel ready? Feel like you did before, for Constance and d'Artagnan?" 

Aramis swallows and nods, flushed all over, and he looks appealingly to Constance. "Please," he whispers, his voice fraying. "Please, Constance, can we?"

Constance knows better than to trust Aramis when he says he's ready, but--bless him, he looks like he's incapable of lying right now. He's all boneless and open and utterly intoxicating, and more than ever Constance feels like she has to protect him. "Let me see," she says, and pushes herself up so she can reach. 

Athos draws his hand carefully out, and Aramis moans softly at the loss--then gasps high and sharp as Constance's fingers fill him back up. She has to hold back her own pulse of desire as she feels how loose he is, how stretched and ready--Athos has been so careful, so good with him. He's ready for more. 

"Yes, my love," she says, and pulls back, stroking Aramis' twitching stomach with her other hand. "Up on your knees."

Aramis' smile lights up, incandescent, and he does his best to sit up on his own. It gets him about six inches before his legs wobble too much and d'Artagnan, laughing, catches him and helps him steady himself. Porthos is chuckling, his hands still on Aramis' waist, but Constance can see his breath coming short and fast, his limbs starting to tremble in anticipation, and she moves smoothly back to her place so he doesn't have to focus right now. Athos sits back on his knees, his chest rising and falling rapidly, too, and she sees his hands clenching, twitching on his own thighs, stopping himself from reaching out.

They want him so badly, they don't trust themselves. She loves them so much.

Constance gently tugs Aramis close. He's loose with all the pleasure he's had already, limbs weak with it, but he kneels up and sways in to kiss her all the same. She slides one hand through his hair, holds him steady as she licks his lips apart, as she kisses him deep and slides her tongue against his. Aramis moans into their kiss, shivers and goes even softer and more pliant in her arms. When they pull apart, she watches his eyes go a liquid, hazy black, and Constance bites at his lip just to see him flush deeper with want. 

She laughs, low and gentle, and nudges him gently to help him turn around. "Go on, then, love."

It takes a little doing, but they get Aramis turned around in Porthos' lap--and manage to stop him from _immediately_ impaling himself on Porthos' cock. "Easy," d'Artagnan chuckles, holding Aramis' waist tightly. "We're getting there."

"Not fast enough," Aramis pants, looking down at Porthos, who's gazing back up with equally lust-glazed eyes. "Please?"

"Yes," Constance says, settling down beside Porthos. "But _slowly--_ "

Aramis dives in for a kiss, taking Porthos' face in his hands and straining against d'Artagnan's hold to be closer. Porthos kisses back, clutching at Aramis' hips, hands roaming over his thighs, and Athos huffs out a breathless chuckle. "Oh, just let them," he says. "I can wait my turn."

Aramis pulls back at that, though, and takes a deep breath. "Sorry," he gasps, stroking over Porthos' lips with one hand. "No, sorry, you're right. I'll be good, I promise."

"You're good," Porthos assures him, slightly breathless. "You're so good."

Aramis hums as he wraps his arms around Porthos' neck. This time he lets them guide him until he's kneeling on either side of Porthos' hips. "Tell me more about how good I am," he says, leaning in to nuzzle at Porthos' temple. He sounds hazy, drunk on anticipation. 

Porthos' smile crests white like a wave, helpless and fond, and Constance's heart tugs in her chest. She loves him, God, so much. He holds onto Aramis' hip with one hand, cups his cheek with the other. "You're gorgeous," he says, his voice a gravel purr in his chest. "You're fucking irresistible, you drive us crazy, and you take everything like you were made for it. I can't wait to be inside you."

Aramis moans softly, bites his lip--and sinks down onto Porthos' cock without another word. 

Porthos' groan strangles itself in his chest, his whole body reacting to Aramis' sudden soft, slick heat-- "Fucking _God,_ Aramis," he chokes, grabbing onto Aramis' hips with both hands. "I meant--you-- _fuck,_ go slow," he half-laughs, looking up into Aramis' face.

Aramis tilts his head back, his eyes shut and his expression pure bliss. His spine arches beautifully, his fingers flexing on Porthos' shoulders as he shudders and sighs, hips straining against Porthos' hold. "There," he breathes, his eyes fluttering open to gaze down at Porthos. "Oh, my love, you feel so good."

"So do you." Porthos bites his own lip, his brows drawn tight with the strain of control. "God, never felt you this loose, just--hold still a minute, love, please. For me." 

Aramis goes still with a soft whimper, one hand reaching up to trace over Porthos' mouth, and Porthos pants, turning his face into Aramis' touch. They're so unbelievably tender, so lovely together. 

Athos makes a soft, ragged sound, and Porthos' eyes lock on him. Constance has never seen Athos look so needy, so desperate as he does staring at Porthos and Aramis right then--and d'Artagnan is moving before Constance can even think, moving to twine himself around Athos and murmur softly to him. "We're almost there," he says, kissing Athos' temple. "You'll have both of them soon, so soon."

Athos closes his eyes and presses into d'Artagnan's touch. He looks gorgeous when he's desperate--skin shining with sweat, lips bitten red, cock leaking between his legs--but the whole point of tonight was to give them all what they wanted.

Aramis looks over his shoulder at Athos, and he lets out a little moan of longing as he rests his head on Porthos' shoulder, looking back at Athos with burning eyes. "Athos."

"Almost," Constance says, to all of them, and picks up the jar of salve. She straddles one of Porthos' splayed legs, spreading more salve on the fingers of one hand, and kisses Aramis' shoulder as she and Porthos gaze at each other. "Let me see you, Aramis."

Aramis gasps in a breath and moans it right back out as she slips a finger inside of him, next to Porthos' cock. Porthos' eyes haze over as she watches, his flush deepening, and she slides her finger in and out, tugging gently at Aramis' rim, testing how relaxed he is. 

She can feel Porthos shuddering as her finger strokes along his shaft. She's trembling a little, too, her eyes still locked on his--it's incredible that they can do this, feel each other like this. 

Aramis feels completely relaxed. He's slipped into that loose, easy, peaceful place where he goes, where his body's lax and he's given himself over to them. She stretches him more, massages gently at his rim, and he just moans softly, doesn't try to hitch his hips or clench. 

"You're so good," Porthos is whispering to him, over and over as Constance works him just that little bit more. Porthos is trembling, tense and shaking--God, he must want to move so badly. He can't stop touching Aramis, shoulders and back and hair, praising him and caressing him. "You feel so good, you're so good when you take it like this."

Aramis tilts his head up to nuzzle at Porthos' chin, his smile wide and shameless. "I am good," he agrees, kissing the corner of Porthos' mouth. 

Porthos lets out a shaky laugh, chasing Aramis' lips. "You are. You're perfect. This is perfect."

Aramis shushes him, kissing his lips closed. "Not yet."

Athos moans softly, overcome, and d'Artagnan kisses his temple, hands moving over Athos the same way Porthos is touching Aramis--constant, soothing, encircling. "Almost," d'Artagnan says, his eyes burning where he watches Constance's hand. "Constance?"

She takes a deep breath, steadying herself. Yes. He's ready. 

She's ready. 

"Athos, come closer," she says, and gently slips her hand free. 

Athos is there instantly, hands stroking restless and greedy on the back of Aramis' thighs. D'Artagnan joins him, soothing both him and a softly groaning Aramis, and Constance is so grateful for his selflessness, his care for all of them. He helps her shift Athos a little closer, to fit him in behind Aramis, between Porthos' legs. 

Aramis whimpers in eager need, pressing up on his knees, as he feels Athos' heat at his back. Athos hushes him, kisses the top of his spine, his fingers flexing on Aramis' thighs. Porthos reaches for him with one hand, his face open and wanting, and Athos tangles their fingers together a moment, his eyes burning on Porthos'. "Yes?"

"Closer, here," d'Artagnan says, and Constance just watches, for a moment, all four of her boys together, hot and eager but still so very tender with each other. Aramis rests his forehead against Porthos', his breath coming fast, and d'Artagnan kisses Athos' temple as he strokes his hips, easing him into the best place. "There, that's good."

"Up, Aramis," Constance orders, and Aramis moans as he lifts up on Porthos' cock a little more, until just the head is still inside him. His thighs are shaking with the effort of holding still, and Porthos' hands aren't much better, trembling on Aramis' waist as he holds on, waiting. Constance reaches out and strokes Porthos' shoulder, trying to transmit some calm, some surety. He flashes her a sweet smile, grateful and warm and so eager, and Constance nods, trying to keep a rein on her own excitement as well.

"Start slow," d'Artagnan murmurs into Athos' ear, nuzzling at his cheek, like he can't bear to not be touching him right now. Athos nods, breathing out harshly as he takes himself in hand, holding onto Aramis with the other, and it seems like they all hold their breath as he presses up close, and--

Aramis' breath rushes out in a _huh_ as the head of Athos' cock pushes inside him next to Porthos'. Porthos grits his teeth, jaw rippling as he holds on tighter, and Athos closes his eyes and sucks in a breath. "Aramis?" he gets out. 

Aramis mouth falls open on a high, shaky gasp, his eyes staring at nothing. 

Athos freezes. "Too much?"

Aramis shakes his head desperately, his eyes leaking tears at the corners. "More! More, please, don't stop--"

Athos drops his head to Aramis' shoulder and groan, teeth flashing as he bites, like he just can't help it. "I won't. We won't."

Porthos makes a sound like he's dying and holds on tight to Aramis' hip, his hand finding Athos' on Aramis' opposite side. "You're so--fuck, I can _feel_ you, I--" He cranes his neck up and muffles his own sob in Aramis' mouth, kissing him the way Constance knows he's aching to fuck him. Aramis moans, his jaw going slack as he opens up to Porthos, and he and Porthos both shake as Athos eases in more. 

"Hold there a moment, Athos," Constance murmurs. They all look like they need a moment to adjust, and Aramis could stand to catch his breath. 

Athos stills immediately, his eyes going to her, and she smiles at him, lets him see on her face how proud she is of him, how well they're doing. Athos' shoulders seem to ease, to settle with the surety she can give him that they're well in hand, and she luxuriates in the feeling for a moment, savoring it. 

"How are you?" d'Artagnan asks, leaning in to kiss Aramis' temple. "How is it?"

The three of them, frozen together, make such a beautiful tableau: Athos rests his forehead on the back of Aramis' neck, while Porthos and Aramis are pressed cheek to cheek. Constance kisses Aramis' shoulder, strokes Porthos' back, soothing, soothing. On Aramis' other side, she sees d'Artagnan holding a grounding hand on the back of Athos' neck. 

"Good?" she prompts them again, her voice hoarser than she'd expected it to be.

Athos groans helplessly, his fingers spasming where he's holding onto Aramis and Porthos. Porthos echoes an answering sigh, rubbing his cheek against Aramis', and his voice is choked when he manages to get out, "Yeah, _fuck_ , yeah."

Constance kisses Aramis' shoulder again. "Aramis."

His eyes blink hazily open to stare at the candles beside the bed. "Oh," he moans finally, and both Athos and Porthos shiver to hear his voice. Constance reaches up her other hand to settle her palm at the small of his back--the sweet dip there, a space just a breath between him and Athos' belly--and Aramis shudders and moans again. 

"How is it?" d'Artagnan asks him, and he can't hide the hungry edge to his voice, not from Constance. Their eyes meet over Aramis' back, and he blushes, and she beams at him--

And then Aramis sighs out, his head falling forward onto Porthos' shoulder, and he makes an utterly obscene sound of bliss. "So _full."_

Porthos rasps in a breath. "You good?"

Aramis nods dazedly, running one hand dazedly up Porthos' shoulder, his other holding tight to Athos' thigh beside him. "It's… I…" He huffs out his breath, his jaw hanging slack, and nuzzles his cheek against Porthos' neck. Porthos bites down hard on his own lip, his eyes meeting Athos' over Aramis' shoulders. Athos looks steadily back, his eyes hazed over with desire, and their fingers tighten on each other, on Aramis.

Aramis shudders, his eyelashes fluttering, and Constance sees the arch of his back ease just a fraction, the tension in his muscles start to relax. "It's so good," he says, sounding dazed. "God, _God,_ it's incredible." He's adjusting, she can see it, settling into this incredible new thing his body can take. 

And then he flexes his thighs and rocks his hips, just once, and Porthos catches his breath while Athos shudders all over--Constance can't imagine how it must feel for the both of them, to not just feel Aramis but _each other_ \--and Aramis' mouth falls open in a gasp. "Oh, yes," he says, breathless, and does it again.

Porthos groans softly and leans in to kiss Aramis' neck, nipping with teeth like he just can't help it. "You're perfect. You're taking it. You're so perfect."

"With you," Aramis breathes out. "All of you."

Athos kisses his neck, kisses d'Artagnan when he's there and leans in, and Constance watches them luxuriate in each other for a long, sweet moment. 

Apparently too long of a moment, because Aramis actually _whines_ and grinds his hips down, wrenching a gasp from Porthos and Athos both. "Please, now," he gasps. _"Please,_ move--"

"We've got you," Porthos assures him, his voice a low rumble that spreads heat through Constance like ink in water. He's perfect. They're all perfect, and they're _hers._ "We've got you and we're gonna make it so good."

Athos lets out a wounded sound. "I need to kiss you," he says, staring at Porthos like he's the whole world. "Porthos--"

Porthos surges forward, one hand holding Aramis steady as the other reaches out to drag Athos in, and Aramis' full-throated groan of approval melds with Athos' sob into Porthos' mouth as they connect. 

Porthos groans against Athos' lips, sounding just as desperate as Aramis had, and Athos clings to Aramis' hips where he's holding them, his hands shaking. 

When they break apart, gazing at each other with glazed eyes, Porthos finds his voice first. "I'll hold him, and you move?"

Athos nods, slowly at first then faster, and as one they look to Constance. She shares a quick look with d'Artagnan, who's sure, who gives her the quicksilver smile she knows means _yes._

All she has to do is nod.

So she does, and Athos rolls his hips up into Aramis, steady and slow. Aramis makes the most obscene, garbled sound of pleasure, and Porthos lets out his breath in a hiss. "Yeah," he growls, his eyes blazing on Athos over Aramis' shoulder. "Yeah, like that."

So Athos does it again, a little harder, and Aramis shudders in pleasure, his shaky hands searching for purchase to brace himself on Porthos' shoulder. "Yes," he gasps. "Yes, fuck, yes--"

Athos holds on tighter and snaps his hips up, and Aramis shouts. Tips his head back and howls, and Athos just fucks him. Fucks _them,_ as Aramis cries out and Porthos swears and urges him on. 

"Do it," he says, holding Aramis with one arm and Athos' hand with the other. "Do it, c'mon, Athos, give it to us--"

Athos _yells,_ wordless and raw, and slams in harder, deeper. Porthos' answering sound is almost savage in its joy, as much like it's been punched from him as Aramis' hoarse, choppy cries. Athos fucks him, fucks them both, and Constance can only imagine how it feels for Aramis to have them both inside him, for Porthos and Athos to feel each other with Aramis' heat all around them--

"God, _fuck_ ," Athos snarls, slowing his hips to a slow rock, and he shakes his head desperately, reaching for d'Artagnan to ground himself. "I can't--I want to _last--"_

"Slower," d'Artagnan tells him, leaning in to stroke Athos' hair, to kiss Aramis' shoulder where he's close. "Longer strokes."

"Porthos," Constance says, because she knows what d'Artagnan's getting at--always knows, always thrills to the way he thinks and cares and _knows_ , "can you move?"

Porthos gets it the moment Aramis does, a half second before Athos does, and the _sound_ they make in a stuttered harmony-- "Yeah," Porthos says, his voice wrecked, and when Athos slides out, Porthos pushes in. And again. And again, until they're truly fucking Aramis in tandem, sliding against each other, long slow strokes that just let them _feel_ \--

Aramis sobs, lost to it, held between them. Porthos presses his face to Aramis' neck, so tender even in the grip of this pleasure they've wanted for so long. Athos' expression is almost feral, drawn so tight he looks like he's in pain, but he doesn't stop. They don't stop.

"Oh, God," Athos breathes softly into Aramis' hair, over and over as he rocks his hips into him. "God, God, God…"

Aramis tips his head back against Athos on a moan, and he's glowing with sweat in the candlelight, in his pleasure. He's beyond words, every tiny motion punching a soft sound from him, and he's so beautiful. They look so beautiful together, all of them. 

She's so happy that they made this happen. That she can take them all in hand like this, make them feel this good. 

"What can we do?" she asks, running her hand up Porthos' back, relishing the flex and pull of his muscles under his warm, soft skin. "How can we make it better?"

"It's already so good," Porthos half-laughs, mouthing at Aramis' sweat-slick collarbones. He presses into her touch, his back rippling, and hoists Aramis in his arms, bouncing him just a little more on their cocks. Aramis gasps and laughs with breathless glee, moaning Porthos' name, and Athos swears, digging his fingertips in on Aramis' hips even tighter. 

"Warn me before you do that, Porthos," he grinds out, and Porthos just flashes him a heated grin and does it again, moving Aramis' slack body like he barely weighs a thing. Aramis' cock jumps against his stomach, his whimper betraying how much he enjoys the manhandling, and Athos surrenders with a soft growl, reaching up to hook a hand in Aramis' hair and tug his head down for a kiss. "You love it, don't you?" Athos says against his lips, nipping at him. "When we move you the way you're meant to be, like you were made for it." 

Aramis just makes another obscene sound of pleasure, loose and unresisting between them, and Athos and Porthos share a look over his body. Athos rolls his head on his neck, cursing softly under his breath, and bites at Aramis' jaw again. Porthos runs possessive hands over Aramis' chest and belly, thumbs framing Aramis' dripping cock, and Aramis moans and shudders with his whole body. "Think he needs to come," Porthos says, the sweet rumble of his voice sending a thrill through them all. 

D'Artagnan hums agreement, sliding closer, and presses a lingering, wet kiss to Athos' neck. "He's not the only one, hmm?"

Athos growls at him, catching their boy in a biting kiss, and d'Artagnan gives him a honeyed smile when they part. He wants what Aramis is getting, Constance knows, and no mistake. He'll want it even more when he sees the three of them come apart. 

"Wait your turn, love," she says in her sweetest tone, and d'Artagnan's full-body shiver makes another pulse of slick wet her thighs. God, she loves this. She loves how well she knows them, how well she can read all their wants and needs--

And she knows what they need right now.

"D'Artagnan, behind Athos," she instructs him, coming closer herself. "Athos, if you're going to pull his hair, mean it."

Athos grins viciously at her as he twines his fist in Aramis' hair and tugs his head back--Aramis' back arches even more, a beautiful bow between Athos' hand and where he's spitted on their cocks, and his groan of satisfaction reverberates in her chest. 

"Porthos, move him," Constance orders, and Porthos' grin is _filthy_ as he braces himself and tightens his grip on Aramis' hips, pulling him into each thrust, making each movement that much harder, that much better. Aramis' eyes squeeze shut and he lets out a broken cry, writhing between Porthos and Athos' hands. 

"Fuck, that's good," Athos gasps, holding on--because he's feeling Porthos' cock, too, on each of his thrusts, feeling the way Aramis is undoubtedly shaking around them. And then Athos chokes another breath and swears, flailing one hand back to where d'Artagnan's nestled up behind him, because Constance has gently directed d'Artagnan to press his own dripping, neglected cock against Athos' ass. _"Fuck--_ Constance--"

"Just take it," she tells him, because sometimes that's what Athos needs, too. And Athos gasps and loses his rhythm, which makes Aramis cry out, and Porthos laughs breathlessly and fucks them both harder.

Constance presses close, brushes a kiss to Porthos' temple, soft and lingering, and then reaches out to rest her hand on Aramis' chest. His eyes flutter open at the touch, dizzily seeking her, and she smiles at him.

Then she slides her hand down to wrap around his cock.

He seizes, cries out in desperate longing at her first touch, and his face twists in pleasure as he starts to work up into her hand, down against them, instinctive, seeking. And both Athos and Porthos are gasping now, losing themselves in the clench and shake of Aramis' body as she strokes him gently and deliberately, knowing just where he's sensitive, just the touch he likes.

"I can't," Porthos gasps, his face screwing up in focus even as she sees him start to lose himself to pure sensation, "oh, fuck, you both--Athos, _Aramis_ \--"

"You're all together again," Constance purrs, feeling her love for them, her certainty, _surety,_ heady and warm all through her. "All of us are."

"Oh," Aramis whimpers, jerking back and forth between her hand and where they're buried in him-- "I, I'm, oh--"

"We've got you," d'Artagnan echoes, hoarse and sweet all at once, and Constance watches Athos' teeth dig into Aramis' shoulder, half-desperate as d'Artagnan fucks up against him, because their need feeds each other and sometimes all they need to do is _drop_ \--

They can. They all can. She has them. She feels so good, so _powerful,_ and she wants them to lose themselves.

"You can come," she tells them, all of them. "You've been so good, and we're all home now, and you can let go."

"Oh, _fuck,_ " Athos sobs, and he drives his hips up into Aramis once, twice--

Aramis _screams,_ his endurance shattered at last, and his knuckles go white as he holds on to them, gasps out, "Love, love you, I love you all so--"

Porthos crushes their mouths together in a desperate kiss, crying out broken against Aramis' lips as he shudders into it. He's beautiful when he comes. They all are, but Porthos when he lets himself be free--

Athos' breathless _ah_ is music and oh, so sweet, his eyes locked on Porthos and Aramis together as he goes rigid all over--Constance can't imagine feeling Porthos come alongside his cock, in Aramis, as Aramis desperately rides the edge. D'Artagnan follows Athos like he always does, bound to him in so many ways, his come on Athos' back so unspeakably beautiful that Constance can barely breathe--

And Aramis, filled at last, comes utterly silently, his face exultant.

Breathe.

They breathe together.

Porthos lifts his head first, tracing his lips gently along Aramis' slackened jaw. "Love you, too," he gets out, his voice utterly wrecked, and Aramis shivers at the sound, presses their cheeks together.

Athos groans, sounding like he's been shot, and lifts his head from Aramis' shoulder. "God. Dear God."

"Yeah," d'Artagnan drawls, his face pulling into a drunk-looking grin as he kisses Athos' shoulder. "That was perfect."

"Yes," Constance agrees, flooded with how much she loves them, wants them, wants to hold all of them close to her and never let her go.

Aramis makes a soft noise at the sound of her voice, turning to her. "Love," he breathes, and she leans forward to kiss him. She's trembling, her own hands unsteady on him, because--she _wants,_ they were so beautiful, but she pushes it down enough to kiss him out of his orgasm daze, to murmur to him how well he did, how perfect it was. She gets him to shift his hips a bit, to let Porthos and Athos go as they soften, and his whimper when he's empty is even more perfect.

"Come here, come here," Porthos says, soft but undeniable, and all of them help Aramis down to curl into his chest. Aramis is limp, still trembling in aftershocks, and Porthos wraps his arms, his whole body around him, curving onto his side and gently depositing Aramis on the cleanest stretch of sheets. d'Artagnan follows him down, lying at Aramis' back and reaching out to stroke his flank, and Aramis nearly purrs as he's surrounded. There. That's better.

Athos kneels protectively over them, holding tight to Porthos' hip. "All right?"

Aramis stretches, rolling onto his back so he can see Athos, too, and grins at him wide and unashamed. "I'm perfect," he says, and his haze has faded to giddiness, joyful in his pleasure, in their success.

Constance can't stop herself from reaching out to cup his cheek, and her heart skips when he gasps a little at her touch, looks up at her so soft and trusting and so happy to see she's close, too. "You _are_ perfect," she says, stroking a possessive hand down to his heart, and he arches under her touch, sleepy and messy and their perfect, perfect love. "You're beautiful like this."

"So are you," Porthos says, and she feels herself flush even as she looks up into his eyes--it's still so hard to believe sometimes, even now. Even when the adoration she finds when she looks at them all makes her belly tremble, and she's aching--

"You are," Athos says, and he's beside her now, leans in close to kiss her shoulder, her neck, her jaw--she can't help turning into him, can't hold back her own moan, and he grabs onto her so tightly she feels it all the way to her core.

He kisses her, just as fierce as he'd kissed Aramis, almost bending her back with it, and Constance gasps, moans as she clings to him--she thought he'd be _tired,_ he looked like he'd spent everything in him--

"Thank you," he gasps against her lips, and her heart seems to double in her chest, her belly clenching as she realizes what he's saying. "We never, never thought--we need you, all of us, _thank_ you, love--"

"I love you," she gets out, because it's the only thought in her head, all she can think or feel right now besides the joy and the heat and the warmth singing through her, and Athos kisses her again, pulling her closer. She nearly sobs with how good it feels, how much she wants them, all of them--

"Here, Athos," Porthos says, and Constance breaks away to ask--

She yelps in surprise as an arm hooks around her waist and pulls her down to the bed. She lands on her back between Porthos and Aramis, the air puffing from her lungs, and she looks up, breathless, at them. "What?"

And then Athos spreads her legs, those delicate hands with swordsman's calluses on her thighs making her jerk and gasp, and she looks down her body just in time to meet his wild eyes before he buries his face between her legs.

Constance throws her head back and cries out, one hand flailing down to his hair while the other clutches wildy for Porthos-- "Oh, oh, _God,_ I--"

"You," Aramis says, leaning in to kiss her collarbone, her shoulder, the sensitive places he knows make her squirm. "You're everything."

"You do so much for us," d'Artagnan murmurs, and she knows his hands on her, one stroking gently over her breast, almost sweet in counterpoint to Athos, who is drinking from her cunt like it's the cup of Christ--

He's moaning into her and the vibrations are so much, too much, sending blasts of heat through her every time his tongue laps against her clit--it's so good, it's _so good,_ she can hardly bear it. 

"Never thought we could have this." Porthos kisses her temple, lips soft and tender and grounding her under the waves of pleasure crashing against her. "But with us all together, all of us, we can do so much--"

"Oh, my God," she sobs, writhing in Athos' hold, because his mouth and his tongue and his beard and his _sounds_ , she's so sensitive, she can feel every single motion of his tongue, every single ridge and scar of his lips, she's--

"You're incredible," d'Artagnan whispers, and the love in his voice undoes her.

Constance's belly clenches, her mouth drops open, and she comes with a scream that shakes the rafters.

In the moments before the sensation in her body returns, when she's still feeling lightning in her fingertips and earthquakes in her spine, she can't move a single muscle, can't even hold her eyes open--but she feels stronger than she ever has before.

When the aftershocks finish she slumps, trembling. Athos draws back with a deep, satisfied breath, and his eyes are so very deep. He reaches up with one hand to wipe her slick from his beard, sucks it off his fingers, smiles.

And then he tenderly rests his head on her thigh, and Constance's heart overflows. 

She reaches down to stroke his hair, her breath still coming too rough to speak, and Athos hums and kisses her skin beneath his cheek. 

"You do everything for us," Aramis murmurs, his gaze soft where he rests on Porthos' chest. 

D'Artagnan kisses her cheek, brushes her hair back from her face. "You hold us together."

Constance's throat burns with tears, joyful and overwhelming, and she smiles at him, helpless to. "You hold me up," she says, because it's all she can say. They're her solid ground. 

She can see the cycle of it now. They make her stronger, and in turn she gives them what they need to be strong themselves--and then they feed it back to her, love and strength and everything she needs, so she can give it right back to them in all the ways they need it themselves.

She closes her eyes and soaks in how right it feels, how perfectly balanced and beautiful and just _good._

And then she brushes Athos' hair back from his face and taps his nose. "Come on, we're not sleeping like this. Basin, cloth."

D'Artagnan laughs softly in her ear, holding her tighter, and against her thigh she feels Athos' smile pull wide across his face. Athos pushes himself up on his elbows and presses one last kiss to the top of her thigh, one hand stretching out to tangle in Porthos' and Aramis' joined fingers as he rises. "Yes, Constance."


	10. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three weeks later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thanks and ever thanks. There are more stories I want to write in this universe--including how we get from the end of canon s1 to here--but we'll leave it here, for now. Thank you all, so much.

Constance knows something's not quite right when she wakes. She groans, burying her face in the pillow, and a heavy, gentle hand lands on the top of her spine. "Love?"

She pushes into Porthos' touch, coming more awake as her body sets off more alarms. She groans again, softer, and lifts her head. "I don't feel well," she mumbles, and she feels Athos stir beside her. She feels guilty immediately--she hates waking them, especially when they're still recovering--but the queasiness in her stomach is growing more and more insistent. 

"Can we get you something?" Athos asks, voice blurry with sleep even as his hand strokes gently over her hair. It's been three weeks since they came home, but he's still being so very tender, fetching and carrying and clearly trying to make up for their extended absence. Constance loves him for it, but--

"Oh, no," she gasps, and flings back the blankets. She scrambles over Athos and dashes for the basin by the hearth, and the rest of their boys come quickly awake as Constance drops to her knees and throws up.

"Constance!"

She hears d'Artagnan's alarm, hears them all shifting on the bed, but she's too busy retching to really pay attention. Someone comes to hold her hair back--Athos--and she reaches one hand back to hold onto him as she's sick again. Oh, _why?_ Why now? They're all finally home, she wants to enjoy this, she doesn't want to be sick.

When it passes, she sits back on her heels, wiping her mouth. Porthos is lighting the lamp next to the bed--oh, now they're all well and truly awake. She's hot with embarrassment, having woken them all, on top of feeling nauseated and miserable. "Sorry," she mumbles, unable to look up, but Athos hushes her and gently draws her in against his side. "I don't know what came over me."

"It's all right," Athos assures her. "Porthos, would you bring the water?"

"No, don't," Constance interrupts, and waves Porthos back down before he can get out of bed. "Really, I think I'm fine."

Aramis and d'Artagnan are sitting up in bed, still curled together the way they'd fallen asleep, but they're both watching with concern. "Are you sure?" Aramis asks, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. "Do you feel feverish, or--"

"No," Constance says emphatically. "I'm sure it's nothing, just--just a bad dream or something--"

D'Artagnan scoffs before she can even finish the sentence, never mind solidify her weak argument. "You've never once woken up _sick_ from a dream," he says, detangling himself from Aramis and starting to get up. "We can take you to the physician--"

 _"No,"_ Constance snaps, hard enough to make him sit down in surprise. She's more embarrassed than before, but she still has her dignity. "I don't need a physician. I'm just a little queasy, I'm sure it's nothing."

"You don't get sick often," Porthos says, watching her with dark, worried eyes. "You sure?"

Constance closes her eyes against another wave of nausea. But it recedes without triggering any sickness, and she presses her face against Athos' chest. He strokes her back, soothing. 

Then, all at once, he goes rigid against her. 

She frowns and lifts her head, but he's not looking at her. He's staring into space with that fixed look that means he's calculating something, be it a battle plan or--

"Constance," Athos says, his voice tightly controlled, "when were your last courses?"

Constance blinks. Frowns. Her first thought is that he's right, she usually does feel a little sick on her monthlies, but why is he looking so--

Then she catches up. 

She sits bolt upright next to him, her mind whirring. Two weeks before they left, and they were gone for--and now it's three weeks since they came home, and she hasn't--

But she'd been anxious, she hadn't been eating much, that can sometimes… 

Sometimes, but not. 

Not three whole weeks.

"Hang on," Porthos says slowly, and she sees him doing the same math in his head. "What day is today?"

They've all been so preoccupied with everything--had lost so much time to grief and worry, or to the blur of days on the battlefield--that it takes them all a moment to count in their heads. 

"The fourth?" d'Artagnan says slowly, his brows knitting as he thinks.

Constance clutches convulsively at Athos' hand. The world's starting to turn gray at the edges.

 _"Oh,"_ d'Artagnan says then, and his eyes go wide. 

Porthos stares at her with his mouth open, his face flushed darker in the candlelight. Athos doesn't seem to be breathing next to her. 

Aramis hasn't said a word, she realizes. She looks up, seeking him--

And he's pale as linen, black eyes huge in his face, staring at the hand she's pressed unconsciously to her belly. 

Constance can't name any of the feelings inside herself right now. All she knows is that her heart is beating louder than she's ever heard it, that she feels like she's swallowed lightning, that she can hardly breathe but at the same time feels like she could shout and sing and fly if she tried. 

"Is it at all possible," Athos says, and his voice cracks, "that you're _not?"_

She can't tell what emotion is fracturing his voice right now, doesn't have the space in her head for it. She's running over every second of the last month and a half in her thoughts, every sign her body might have given her that she missed. 

It's all there. Extra exhaustion, extra tenderness, her appetite and her weeping and her moods, and she should have bled almost a month ago. She missed it, hidden in what was happening, but. God. It's all there. 

Constance closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. 

"I'm pregnant," she says, the words firm and loud and _real_ in the room. 

There. 

There's no going back now. 

For a moment, all she hears is their ragged breathing. 

Then someone laughs. Just once, rusty, more air than sound--

And Constance's eyes snap open, because it's _Athos._

She looks up at him, shocked to hear the sound. She's never heard it before. He's smiling down at her with wet eyes, his face mirroring all her joy and fear, and he holds her even tighter. 

D'Artagnan's shaky laugh makes them look up, and he's beaming down at them, smile slowly growing wider and wider. Porthos has one hand over his mouth, holding himself up with his elbow on his knee and staring at them on the floor by the hearth, his eyes wide and shining, too. 

Aramis--Aramis is still frozen. His eyes have brimmed over, tears running silently down his cheeks, and he's staring at her belly, still, looking lost. 

Constance's heart thumps hard, her stomach turning as a totally different nausea rises in her. "Aramis?" Her voice is not at all as strong as she wants it to be. 

If he's--if he's not happy--

Her voice seems to jar him, and he looks up at her face. He blinks once, his mouth open slightly, and finally he manages, "Five weeks."

They all look at him, Porthos and d'Artagnan just now realizing how pale he looks, how sick. Constance doesn't understand. "Five weeks what?"

Aramis leans into Porthos when Porthos' arm comes around him, covers d'Artagnan's hand when d'Artagnan reaches out to hold onto his knee. He takes a deep breath, his eyes filling again. "With--with the timing, and your cycle. It must have been five weeks ago."

Five weeks ago. She tries to think--that would have been the first week that Athos, Porthos, and d'Artagnan were gone on the campaign.

The week Aramis had nightmares--the week they lay together every single night, just to calm each other, to reassure themselves they were still alive, still together--

Oh.

Aramis. 

She looks at him, heart in her throat, and he manages a trembling smile. 

Porthos catches on first. He looks between them, his eyes widening, and when he speaks, his voice is soft with wonder. "Aramis?"

Tears spill over down Aramis' cheeks, and Constance finally realizes that Aramis isn't upset, or afraid--

He's _happy_. 

She scrambles to her feet and hurls herself into bed, and his arms. 

Aramis is shaking, but God, he holds her so tightly. His face is buried in her hair, and as she presses into his chest she hears him whispering prayers. Gloria and Deo gratias, and all she can do is hold on. She's dizzy from the world spinning around her. 

"Constance," he whispers. _"Constance."_ She holds on, breathes with him, and waits for it to feel real. She's with child. Aramis' child. 

The others press in close around them, touching Constance and Aramis and each other and--they all have to hold each other, they have to feel this moment together. 

And then she realizes. 

Constance jerks upright. "I have to marry one of you," she says, blank with shock. "We--I have to be married, I can't have a child like this, we can't have illegitimate children--"

"That's all right," Porthos assures her, and he wraps an arm around her, holds her steady so she doesn't shake. "That's the easy part, love, that's fine."

"No, it's _not,_ how am I--how am I supposed to choose?"

They all stare at her, openmouthed to a man, and--she hadn't meant to say that. She flushes all over, embarrassed but defiant, because she does, she loves them all and she doesn't want to choose just one, the whole point of being together like this is so none of them have to. 

And then Porthos laughs and cups her cheek.

"That's the nicest thing anyone's ever said to us," Porthos says, beaming at her. "But you know it doesn't have to change anything, love, right?"

She doesn't, not at all, because her marriage changed _everything_ \--it was this monster looming over her, dividing her life into before and after and _affair_ and now--

"I know," Athos says softly, and she turns to him and sees it on his face--he knows, the way she does, the _before_ and the _after._ There's a storm in his eyes, but his smile for her is real. "But it won't for _us._ We'll all still know that we--" He stumbles, but he breathes, takes strength from the hand he slides into hers, and goes on. "We love each other. All of us. The world will see one thing, but that doesn't matter. We'll know."

"Exactly," d'Artagnan says, his eyes glowing with pride as he leans in to kiss Athos' temple.

Constance takes a deep breath. They're right, she realizes, when she calms down and thinks about it. They'll all know the truth. They all love each other. The law, the Church--it won't be a lie if she marries one of them, because she's married to them all in her heart. They're all bound in their own way.

And--God won't mind. If there's one thing Aramis has taught her, it's that God won't mind. 

"All right," she says, feeling like she's about to fly off a cliff. They're really going to do this. She grins at them, feeling wild, feeling freer than the idea of marriage has ever made her feel. "Since you four seem to have done more thinking about this, who's going to put his hat in?"

"It should be d'Artagnan," Aramis says, and for all that his voice is gentle, it's firm, a foregone conclusion. 

D'Artagnan's cheeks flood with color, and she's not sure she's ever seen him genuinely lost for words. His hand wraps around hers, tightly, and Constance can only look at his face, drink in the way he looks bewildered and young all at once. Her boy. Her perfect boy.

"'Course it should," Porthos says, his smile even wider. "Whole world knows you love each other."

Athos rests his chin on Aramis' shoulder. "And the three of us are a set. It wouldn't seem strange, for us to keep our lodgings in your happily married home."

Constance can barely hold the idea in her head. It--it _would_ work, it would seem logical to the neighbors, seem perfectly normal, whether or not they knew of her and d'Artagnan's affair, it's been long enough now she's been a widow--

And they could all be together, they could all stay together, their _children_ could--

"And then there's the practicals," Porthos adds, almost matter-of-fact. D'Artagnan looks at him, question plain on his face, and Porthos' smile is small, complicated. "Easiest, I think, to pass off all the kids as yours, yeah?"

It takes a moment to realize what he means, if it's timing or--but then Constance realizes.

Yes, any child of Aramis' or Porthos'--they could pass it as d'Artagnan's, with his coloring, with her own curls, and any child of Athos' would just seem to take after her--but the _unfairness_ rises up and chokes her, all at once.

Constance launches herself across the bed into Porthos' arms, knocking the wind out of him in surprise. "They'll all be yours," she vows, squeezing them tightly. "All of you, all of _them_ \--they're yours. Ours. All of ours. You'll all be fathers to them, they'll know, here at home--they'll know. The world doesn't matter. All our children will know they're yours."

She feels the shocked rise of Porthos' chest, just once, a tender precious thing, and then his arms fold around her tighter. "Yeah, love," he whispers, his voice thick. "Yeah, we know."

"Of course they will," d'Artagnan says, and he's choked up, too. "We'll figure out for the world, but here at home--of course we'll be a family."

A family.

They all look at each other, then, with the word hanging in the air. They're a family. They're going to _be_ a family, with children and parents and--a _family._

Constance blinks away the tears that fill her eyes.

They all want this. They can have it. They can do this. 

"Our family," she says. Aramis nods, his smile trembling and eyes shining. Porthos looks like he's happy down to his bones, happy in a way she's never seen him--and Athos, too, with his eyes so wide, seems almost shocked by what he's feeling. 

D'Artagnan smiles at her, steady and sure and bright with joy, and Constance reaches across the circle for his hand.

They'll have to get up soon, to make this first day of their new life as ordinary as possible. But they can sit a while, first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, [you know where to find me.](http://tehriz.tumblr.com/)


End file.
